GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


/\  K     t    f. 


DOCTOE  JOHNS 

BY  DON?  G,  MITCHELL 


DOCTOR  JOHNS 


BEING 


A   NARRATIVE 

OF  CERTAIN  EVENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF 

AN  ORTHODOX  MINISTER  OF 

CONNECTICUT 


•  •  v 


BY   THE    AUTHOB  OF 

"REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR" 


NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SOWS 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1866,  1888,  189& 
BY  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


/ 

DEDICATED 

TO  MY  OLD  AND  CONSTANT  FRIEND 

WILLIAM  HENRY  HUNTING  TON, 

OF  THE  RUB  DE  LA  BRUY&RE,   PARIS: 

WHO  SAT  WITH  ME  HALF  A  CENTURY  AGO  UPON  THE   BENCHES 

OF  A  NEW  ENGLAND  SCHOOL  ;    AND  WHO  I  HOPE  WILL 

RELISH  WHATEVER  FRAGRANT  WHIFF  OF 

THOSE  OLD  TIMES  AND  SCENES  MA  T 

COME  TO  HIM  FROM  OFF  THE 

PAGES  OF  THIS  NEW 

ENGLAND  STORY. 

EDGEWOOD  : 
THANKSGIVING  DAT,  1883. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  THE  MAJOR, i 

IL  WHITHER  GONE? 6 

IIL  RACHEL, 9 

IV.    ASHFIELD, 14 

V.  TOWN  WORTHIES, 18 

VL  HOME  ESTABLISHED, 22 

VIL  THE  OWL  AND  SPARROW, 28 

VIIL  AN  ACCOMPLISHED  SINNER, 35 

IX.  REUBEN, 45 

X.  A  CLOUD, 50 

XL  PARISH  SYMPATHIES, 55 

XII.  THE  PARSON'S  CONSOLATION,        ....  60 

XIIL  PRACTICAL  SYMPATHIES 63 

XIV.  A  NEW  MISTRESS, 71 

XV.  BOY  DEVELOPMENT, 78 

XVL  A  SURPRISE, 84 

XVIL  SKIRMISHINGS, •  91 

XVIII.  EXPECTATION, 97 

XIX.  THE  ARRIVAL, 100 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XX.  ADELE  MEETS  REUBEN, 107 

XXI.  Miss  ONTHANK, 114 

XXII.  RELIGIOUS  TEACHING, 120 

XXIII.  REUBEN  LEAVES  HOME,       .....  126 

XXIV.  REUBEN  ESCAPES, 136 

XXV.  REUBEN'S  VOYAGE, I41 

XXVI.  A  ROSARY, 148 

XXVII.  REUBEN  IN  NEW  YORK, 153 

XXVIII.  ASHFIELD  AGAIN, 160 

XXIX.  EVERY-DAY  LIFE, 166 

XXX.  NEW  PROSPECTS, 176 

XXXI.  A  NEW  PERSONAGE, 181 

XXXII.  MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS, 185 

XXXIII.  IN  THE  CITY, 194 

XXXIV.  THE  NEW  REUBEN, 201 

XXXV.  TRAVEL, 207 

XXXVI.  ILLNESS, 214 

XXXVII.  SHORTCOMINGS  OF  REUBEN/       .        .        .        .222 

XXXVIII.  A  NEW  EXPERIENCE, 229 

XXXIX.  REUBEN  MAKES  A  PROSELYTE,     .        .        .        .236 

XL.  DEATH, 243 

XLI.  REUBEN'S  STRUGGLE, 251 

XLII.  A  REVELATION, 259 

XLIII.  THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION 265 

XLIV.  PHILIP  ELDERKIN, 274 

XLV.  THE  SPINSTER'S  POLICY, 281 

XLVI.  A  PHRENZY, 290 

XLVII.  WILL  SHE? 299 

XLVIII.  CAFE  DE  L' ORIENT, 3°9 

XLIX.  ADELE  LEAVES  THE  PARSONAGE,         .        .        .316 
L,  PHILIP'S  CHANCES, 323 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


PACK 

LI.  CONCERNING  A  COLLEAGUE, 327 

LIL  NEWS  FROM  MAVERICK, 331 

LIII.  CLEAR  BUT  DARK, 336 

LIV.  CLEARER  AND  DARKER,        .....      342 

LV.  CONFIDENCES, 347 

LVI.  ADELE — REUBEN — MAVERICK,       ....       354 

LVIL  MAVERICK  is  MARRIED, 359 

LVIII.  NEW  COMPLICATIONS, 365 

LIX.  A  TRUST  FOR  PHIL, 370 

LX.  FATHER  AND  CHILD,     ......      376 

LXI.  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST, 382 

LXII.  REUBEN  AT  ROME, 389 

LXIIL  THE  VOYAGE, 395 

LXIV.  A  WRECK 402 

LXV.  THE  SAVED  AND  LOST, 412 

LXVL  LAST  SCENES, 418 

LXVIL  THE  END, 426 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 


The  Major. 

TN  the  summer  of  1812,  when  the  good  people  of  Con- 
-*-  necticut  were  feeling  uncommonly  bitter  about  the 
declaration  of  war  against  England,  and  were  abusing 
Mr.  Madison  in  the  roundest  terms,  there  lived  in  the 
town  of  Canterbury  a  fiery  old  gentleman,  of  near  sixty 
years,  and  a  sterling  Democrat,  who  took  up  the  cudgels 
bravely  for  the  Administration,  and  stoutly  belabored 
Governor  Roger  Griswold  for  his  tardy  obedience  to 
the  President  in  calling  out  the  militia,  and  for  what  he 
called  his  absurd  pretensions  in  regard  to  State  sover 
eignty.  He  was  a  mm,  too.  who  meant  all  that  he  said, 
and  gave  the  best  proof  of  it  by  offering  his  military 
services, — first  to  the  Governor,  and  then  to  the  United 
States  General  commanding  the  Department. 

Nor  was  he  wholly  unfitted  :   he  was  erect,  stanch. 


2  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

well  knit  together,  and  had  served  with  immense  credit 
in  the  local  militia,  in  which  he  wore  the  title  of  Major. 
It  does  not  appear  that  his  offer  was  immediately  accept 
ed  ;  but  the  following  season  he  was  invested  with  the 
command  of  a  company,  and  was  ordered  back  and  forth 
to  various  threatened  points  along  the  sea-board.  His 
home  affairs,  meantime,  were  left  in  charge  of  his  son, 
a  quiet  young  man  of  four-and- twenty,  who  for  three 
years  had  been  stumbling  with  a  very  reluctant  spirit 
through  the  law-books  in  the  Major's  office,  and  who 
shared  neither  his  father's  ardor  of  temperament  nor  his 
political  opinions.  Eliza,  a  daughter  of  twenty  summers, 
acted  as  mistress  of  the  house,  and  stood  in  place  of 
mother  to  a  black-eyed  little  girl  of  thirteen,  —  the  Ma 
jor's  daughter  by  a  second  wife,  who  had  died  only  a  few 
years  before. 

Notwithstanding  the  lack  of  political  sympathy,  there 
was  yet  a  strong  attachment  between  father  and  son. 
The  latter  admired  exceedingly  the  energy  and  full-souled 
ardor  of  the  old  gentleman  ;  and  the  father,  in  turn,  was 
proud  of  the  calm,  meditative  habit  of  mind  which  the 
son  had  inherited  from  his  mother.  "  There  is  metal  in 
the  boy  to  make  a  judge  of,"  the  Major  used  to  say. 
And  when  Benjamin,  shortly  after  his  graduation  at  one 
of  the  lesser  New  England  colleges,  had  given  a  hint  of 
his  possible  study  of  theology,  the  Major  answered  with 
a  "Pooh!  pooh!  "  which  disturbed  the  son  —  possibly 
weighed  with  him  —  more  than  the  longest  opposing 
argument  could  have  done. 

The  Major,  like  all  sound  Democrats,  had  always  been 


THE  MAJOR.  3 

an  ardent  admirer  of  Mr.  Jefferson  and  of  the  French 
political  school.  Benjamin  had  a  wholesome  horror  of 
both  ;  not  so  much  from  any  intimate  knowledge  of 
their  theories,  as  by  reason  of  a  strong  religious  instinct, 
which  had  been  developed  under  his  mother's  counsels 
into  a  rigid  and  exacting  Puritanism. 

The  first  wife  of  the  Major  had  left  behind  her  the 
reputation  of  "a  saint."  It  was  not  undeserved:  her 
quiet,  constant  charities,  —  her  kindliness  of  look  and 
manner,  which  were  in  themselves  the  best  of  charities, 
—  -  a  gentle,  Christian  way  she  had  of  dealing  with  all 
the  vagrant  humors  of  her  husband,  —  and  the  con 
stancy  of  her  devotion  to  all  duties,  whether  religious  or 
domestic,  gave  her  better  claim  to  the  saintly  title  than 
most  who  wear  it.  The  Major  knew  this,  and  was  very 
proud  of  it.  "If,  "he  was  accustomed  to  say,  "I  am 
the  most  godless  man  in  the  parish,  my  wife  is  the  most 
godly  woman."  Yet  his  godlessness  was,  after  all,  rather 
outside  than  real  ;  it  was  a  kind  of  effrontery,  provoked 
into  noisy  display  by  the  extravagant  bigotries  of  those 
about  him.  He  did  not  believe  in  monopolies  of  opin 
ion,  but  in  good  average  dispersion  of  all  sorts  of  think 
ing.  On  one  occasion  he  had  horrified  his  poor  wife  by 
bringing  home  a  full  set  of  Voltaire's  Works  ;  but  hav 
ing  reasoned  her  —  or  fancying  he  had  —  into  a  belief  in 
the  entire  harmlessness  of  the  offending  books,  he  grati 
fied  her  immensely  by  placing  them  out  of  all  sight  and 
reach  of  the  boy  Benjamin. 

He  never  interfered  with  the  severe  home  course  '  oi 
religious  instruction  entered  upon  by  the  mother.  On 


UNIVERSITY  J 
OF  r~ 


4  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  contrary,  he  said,  "The  boy  will  need  it  all  as  an 
offset  to  the  bedevilments  that  will  overtake  him  in  our 
profession."  The  Major  had  a  very  considerable  country 
practice,  and  had  been  twice  a  member  of  the  Legisla 
ture. 

His  second  wife,  a  frivolous,  indolent  person,  who 
had  brought  him  a  handsome  dowry,  and  left  him  the 
pretty  black-eyed  Mabel,  never  held  equal  position  with 
the  first.  It  was  observed,  howrever,  with  some  surprise, 
that  under  the  sway  of  the  latter  he  was  more  punctili 
ous  and  regular  in  religious  observances  than  before,  — 
a  fact  which  the  shrewd  ones  explained  by  his  old  doc 
trine  of  adjusting  averages. 

Benjamin,  Eliza,  and  Mabel,  —  each  in  their  way, — 
waited  news  from  the  military  campaign  of  the  Major 
with  great  anxiety ;  all  the  more  because  he  was  under 
stood  to  be  a  severe  disciplinarian  ;  and  it  had  been  ru 
mored  in  the  parish  that  two  or  three  of  his  company,  of 
rank  Federal  opinions,  had  vowed  they  wrould  sooner 
shoot  the  captain  than  any  foreign  enemy  of  the  State. 
The  Major,  however,  heard  no  guns  in  either  front  or 
rear  up  to  the  time  of  the  British  attack  upon  the 
borough  of  Stonington,  in  midsummer  of  1814  In  the 
defence  here  he  was  very  active,  in  connection  with  a 
certain  artillery  force  that  had  come  down  the  river 
from  Norwich ;  and  although  the  attack  of  the  British 
Admiral  was  a  mere  feint,  yet  for  a  while  there  was  a 
very  lively  sprinkling  of  shot.  The  people  of  the  little 
borough  were  duly  frightened,  the  Ramilies  seventy-four 
gun-ship  of  his  Majesty  enjoyed  an  excellent  oppor- 


THE  MAJOR.  5 

tunity  for  long-range  practice,  and  the  militia  gave  an 
honest  ailing  to  their  patriotism.  The  Major  was 
wholly  himself.  "  If  the  rascals  would  only  attempt  a 
landing ! "  said  he  ;  and  as  he  spoke,  a  fragment  of 
shell  struck  his  sword-arm  at  the  elbow.  The  wound 
was  a  grievous  one,  and  the  surgeon  in  attendance  de 
clared  amputation  to  be  necessary.  The  Major  com 
bated  the  decision  for  a  while,  but  loss  of  blood  weak 
ened  his  firmness,  and  the  operation  was  gone  through 
with  very  bunglingly.  Next  morning  a  country  wagon 
was  procured  to  transport  him  home.  The  drive  was 
an  exceeding  rough  one,  and  the  stump  fell  to  bleed 
ing.  Most  men  would  have  lain  by  for  a  day  or  two, 
but  the  Major  insisted  upon  pushing  on  for  Canter 
bury,  where  he  arrived  late  at  night,  very  much  ex 
hausted. 

The  country  physician  declared,  on  examination  next 
morning,  that  some  readjustment  of  the  amputated  limb 
was  necessary,  which  was  submitted  to  by  the  Major  in 
a  very  irritable  humor.  Friends  and  enemies  of  the 
wounded  man  were  all  kind  and  full  of  sympathy.  Miss 
Eliza  was  in  a  flutter  of  dreary  apprehension  that  ren 
dered  her  incapable  of  doing  anything  effectively.  Ben 
jamin  was  as  tender  and  as  devoted  as  a  woman.  The 
wound  healed  in  due  time,  but  the  Major  did  not  rally. 
The  drain  upon  his  vitality  had  been  too  great ;  he  fell 
into  a  general  decline,  which  within  a  fortnight  gave 
promise  of  fatal  results.  The  Major  met  the  truth  like  a 
veteran  ;  he  arranged  his  affairs,  by  the  aid  of  his  son, 
with  a  great  show  of  method,  —  closed  all  in  due  time  ; 


6  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

and  when  he  felt  his  breath  growing  short,  called  Ben 
jamin,  and  like  a  good  officer  gave  his  last  orders. 

"Mabel,"  said  he,  "is  provided  for;  it  is  but  just 
that  her  mother's  property  should  be  settled  on  her  ;  I 
have  done  so.  For  yourself  and  Eliza,  you  will  have 
need  of  a  close  economy.  I  don't  think  j-ou'll  do  much 
at  law  ;  you  once  thought  of  preaching  ;  if  you  think  so 
now,  preach,  Benjamin  ;  there's  something  in  it ;  at 
least  it's  better  than  Fed  —  Federalism." 

A  fit  of  coughing  seized  him  here,  from  which  he 
never  fairly  rallied.  Benjamin  took  his  hand  when  he 
grew  quiet,  and  prayed  silently,  while  the  Major  slipped 
off  the  roll  militant  forever. 


n. 

Whither  Gone? 

THE  funeral  was  appointed  for  the  second  day  there 
after.  The  house  was  set  in  order  for  the  occasion. 
Chairs  were  brought  in  from  the  neighbors.  A  little 
table,  with  a  Bible  upon  it,  was  placed  in  the  entrance- 
way  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  that  all  might  hear  what 
the  clergyman  should  say.  The  body  lay  in  the  parlor, 
with  the  Major's  sword  and  cocked  hat  upon  the  coffin ; 
and  the  old  gentleman's  face  had  never  worn  an  air  of 
so  much  dignity  as  it  wore  now.  Death  had  refined 
away  ah1  trace  of  his  irritable  humors,  of  his  passionate, 
hasty  speech.  It  looked  like  the  face  of  a  good  man,  — - 


WHITHER    GONE?  7 

so  said  nine  out  of  ten  who  gazed  on  it  that  day ;  yet 
when  the  immediate  family  came  up  to  take  their  last 
glimpse,  —  the  two  girls  being  in  tears,  —  in  that  dreary 
half -hour  after  all  was  arranged,  and  the  flocking-in  of 
the  neighbors  was  waited  for,  Benjamin,  as  calm  as  the 
dead  face  below  him,  was  asking  himself  if  the  poor 
gentleman,  his  father,  had  not  gone  away  to  a  place  of 
torment.  He  feared  it ;  nay,  was  he  not  bound  to  believe 
it  by  the  whole  force  of  his  education  ?  and  his  heart, 
in  that  hour,  made  only  a  feeble  revolt  against  the  be 
lief.  In  the  very  presence  of  the  grim  messenger  of  the 
Eternal,  who  had  come  to  seal  the  books  and  close  the 
account,  what  right  had  human  afiection  to  make  out 
cry?  Death  had  wrought  the  work  given  him  to  do, 
like  a  good  servant ;  had  not  he,  too,  —  Benjamin,  —  a 
duty  to  fulfil  ?  the  purposes  of  Eternal  Justice  to  recog 
nize,  to  sanction,  to  approve  ?  In  the  exaltation  of  his 
religious  sentiment  it  seemed  to  him,  for  one  crazy  mo 
ment  at  least,  that  he  would  be  justified  in  taking  his 
place  at  the  little  table  where  prayer  was  to  be  said,  and 
in  setting  forth,  as  one  who  knew  so  intimately  the 
shortcomings  of  the  deceased,  all  those  weaknesses  of 
the  flesh  and  spirit  by  which  the^evil  had  triumphed, 
and  in  warning  all  those  who  came  to  his  burial  of  the 
judgments  of  God  which  would  surely  fall  on  them  as 
on  him,  except  they  repented  and  believed. 

Happily,  however,  the  officiating  clergyman  was  of  a 
more  even  temper  ;  and  he  said  wrhat  little  he  had  to  say 
in  way  of  "  improvement  of  the  occasion  "  to  the  text  of 
"Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged." 


DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  We  are  too  apt,"  said  he  (and  he  was  now  address 
ing  a  company  that  crowded  the  parlors  and  flowed  over 
into  the  yard  in  front,  where  the  men  stood  with  heads 
uncovered),  "  we  are  too  apt  to  measure  a  man's  position 
in  the  eye  of  God,  and  to  assign  him  his  rank  in  the 
future,  by  his  conformity  to  the  external  observances  of 
religion,  —  not  remembering,  in  our  complacency,  that 
we  see  differently  from  those  who  look  on  from  beyond 
the  world,  and  that  there  are  mysterious  and  secret  re 
lations  of  God  with  the  conscience  of  every  man,  which 
we  cannot  measure  or  adjust.  Let  us  hope  that  our 
deceased  friend  profited  by  such  to  insure  his  entrance 
into  the  Eternal  City,  whose  streets  are  of  gold,  and  the 
Lamb  the  light  thereof." 

The  listeners  said  "Amen"  to  this  in  their  hearts; 
but  the  son,  still  exalted  by  the  fervor  of  that  new  pur 
pose  which  he  had  formed  by  the  father's  death-bed,  and 
riveted  more  surely  as  he  looked  last  on  his  face,  asked 
himself,  if  the  old  preacher  had  not  allowed  a  kindly 
worldly  prudence  to  blunt  the  sharpness  of  the  Word. 

Sudden  contact  with  Death  had  refined  all  his  old 
religious  impressions  to  an  intensity  that  shaped  itself 
into  a  flaming  sword  of  retribution.  All  this,  however, 
as  yet,  lay  within  his  own  mind,  not  beating  down  his 
natural  affection,  or  his  grief,  but  struggling  for  recon 
cilement  with  them ;  no  outward  expression,  even  to 
those  who  clung  to  him  so  nearly,  revealed  it.  The 
memorial-stone  which  he  placed  over  his  father's  grave, 
and  which  possibly  is  standing  now  within  the  old 
church-yard  of  Canterbury,  bore  only  this : — 


RACHEL. 

HERE  LIES   THE  BODY  OF 

REUBEN  JOHNS. 

A    GOOD   HUSBAND;    A   KIND  FATHER; 

A  PATRIOT,    WHO  DIED  FOR  HIS  COUNTRY, 

1st  SEPT.,   1814. 

And  a  little  below, — 

"Christ  died  for  all." 


m. 

Racket. 

IT  will  be  no  contravention  of  the  truth  of  this  epitaph, 
to  say  that  the  Major  had  been  always  a  most  miser 
able  manager  of  his  private  business  affairs ;  it  is 
even  doubtful  if  the  kindest  fathers  and  best  husbands 
are  not  apt  to  be.  Certain  it  is,  that,  when  Benjamin 
came  to  examine,  in  connection  with  a  village  attorney 
(for  the  son  had  inherited  the  father's  inaccessibility  to 
"  profit  and  loss "  statements),  such  loose  accounts  as 
the  Major  had  left,  it  was  found  that  the  poor  gentle 
man  had  lived  up  so  closely  to  his  income — whether  as 
lawyer  or  military  chieftain  —  as  to  leave  his  little  home 
property  subject  to  the  payment  of  a  good  many  out 
standing  debts.  There  appeared,  indeed,  a  great  parade 
of  ledgers  and  day-books  and  statements  of  accounts  ; 
but  it  is  by  no  means  unusual  for  those  who  are  careless 


io  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

or  ignorant  of  business  system  to  make  a  pretty  show 
of  the  requisite  implements,  and  to  confuse  themselves 
in  a  pleasant  way  with  the  intricacy  of  their  own  figures. 

The  Major  sinned  pretty  largely  in  this  way  ;  so  that 
it  was  plain  that,  after  the  sale  of  all  his  available  effects, 
including  the  library  with  its  inhibited  Voltaire,  there 
would  remain  only  enough  to  secure  a  respectable  main 
tenance  for  Miss  Eliza.  To  this  end,  Benjamin  deter 
mined  at  once  that  the  residue  of  the  estate  should  be 
settled  upon  her,  —  reserving  only  so  much  as  would 
comfortably  maintain  him  during  a  three  years'  course 
of  battling  with  Theology. 

The  younger  sister,  Mabel,  —  as  has  already  been  in 
timated, —  was  provided  for  by  an  interest  in  certain 
distinct  and  dividend-bearing  securities,  which — to  the 
honor  of  the  Major  —  had  never  been  submitted  to  the 
alembic  of  his  figures  and  "  accounts  current."  She 
was  placed  at  a  school  where  she  accomplished  herself 
for  three  or  four  years  ;  and  put  the  seal  to  her  accom 
plishments  by  marrying  very  suddenly,  and  without 
family  consultation, — under  which  she  usually  proved 
restive,  —  a  young  fellow,  who  by  aid  of  her  snug  for 
tune  succeeded  in  establishing  himself  in  a  thriving 
business  ;  and  as  early  as  the  year  1820,  Mabel,  under 
her  new  name  of  Mrs.  Brindlock,  was  the  mistress  of 
one  of  those  fine  merchant-palaces  at  the  lower  end  of 
Greenwich  Street,  in  New  York  City,  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  elegant  Battery,  and  were  the  admiration 
of  all  country  visitors. 

Benjamin    had   needed   only   his    father's    hint   (for 


RACHEL.  ii 

which  he  was  ever  grateful),  and  the  solemn  scenes  of 
his  death  and  burial,  to  lead  him  to  an  entire  renuncia 
tion  of  his  law-craft  and  to  an  engagement  in  fervid 
study  for  the  ministry.  This  he  prosecuted  at  first  with 
a  devout  old  gentleman  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  Pres 
ident  Edwards  ;  and  this  private  reading  was  finished 
off  by  a  course  at  Andover.  His  studies  completed,  he 
was  licensed  to  preach  ;  and  not  long  after,  without  any 
consideration  of  what  the  future  of  this  world  might 
have  in  store  for  him,  he  committed  the  error  which  so 
many  grave  and  serious  men  are  prone  to  commit, —  that 
is  to  say,  he  married  hastily,  after  only  two  or  three 
months  of  solemn  courtship,  a  charming  girl  of  nineteen, 
whose  only  idea  of  meeting  the  difficulties  of  this  life 
was  to  love  her  dear  Benjamin  with  her  whole  heart,  and 
to  keep  the  parlor  dusted. 

But  unfortunately  there  was  no  parlor  to  dust.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  newly  married  couple  were 
compelled  to  establish  a  temporary  home  upon  the  sec 
ond  floor  of  the  comfortable  house  of  Mr.  Handby,  a 
well-to-do  farmer,  and  the  father  of  the  bride.  Here 
the  new  clergyman  devoted  himself  resolutely  to  Tillot- 
son,  to  Edwards,  to  John  Newton,  and  in  the  intervals 
prepared  some  score  or  more  of  sermons, —  to  all  which 
Mrs.  Johns  devoutly  listening  in  their  fresh  state,  with 
out  ever  a  wink,  entered  upon  the  conscientious  duties 
of  a  wife.  From  time  to  time  some  old  clergyman  of 
the  neighborhood  would  ask  the  Major's  son  to  assist 
him  in  the  Sabbath  services  ;  and  at  rarer  intervals  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Johns  was  invited  to  some  far-away  town* 


12  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ship  where  the  illness  or  absence  of  the  settled  minister 
might  keep  the  new  licentiate  for  four  or  five  weeks  ;  on 
which  occasions  the  late  Miss  Hanclby  was  most  zealous 
in  preparing  a  world  of  comforts  for  the  journey,  and 
invariably  followed  him  up  with  one  or  two  double  let 
ters,  "hoping  her  dear  Benjamin  was  careful  to  wear 
the  muffler  which  his  Eachel  had  knit  for  him,  and  not 
to  expose  his  precious  throat," — or  "longing  for  that 
quiet  home  of  their  own,  which  would  not  make  necessary 
these  cruel  separations,  and  where  she  should  have  the 
uninterrupted  society  of  her  dear  Benjamin." 

To  all  such  the  conscientious  husband  dutifully  re 
plied,  "  thankful  for  his  Rachel's  expression  of  interest 
in  such  a  sinner  as  himself,  and  trusting  that  she  would 
not  forget  that  health  or  the  comforts  of  this  world  were 
but  of  comparatively  small  importance,  since  this  wras 
'not  our  abiding  city.'  He  trusted,  too,  that  she  would 
not  allow  the  transitory  affections  of  this  life,  however 
dear  they  might  be,  to  engross  her  to  the  neglect  of  those 
•which  were  far  more  important.  He  permitted  himself 
to  hope  that  Rachel "  (he  was  chary  of  endearing  epi 
thets)  "  would  not  murmur  against  the  dispensations  oi 
Providence,  and  would  be  content  with  whatever  He 
might  provide  ;  and  hoping  that  Mr.  Handby  and  fam 
ily  were  in  their  usual  health,  remained  her  Christian 
friend  and  devoted  husband,  Benjamin  Johns." 

It  so  happened,  that,  after  this  discursive  life  had 
lasted  for  some  ten  months,  a  serious  difficulty  arose 
between  the  clergyman  and  the  parish  of  the  neighbor 
ing  town  of  Ashfield.  The  person  who  served  as  the 


RACHEL,  13 

spiritual  director  of  the  people  was  suspected  of  leaning 
strongly  toward  some  current  heresy  of  the  day ;  and 
the  suspicion  being  once  set  on  foot,  there  was  not  a 
sermon  the  poor  man  could  preach  but  some  quidnunc 
of  the  parish  snuffed  somewhere  in  it  the  taint  of  the 
false  doctrine.  The  due  convocations  and  committees 
of  inquiry  followed  sharply  after,  and  the  incumbent 
received  his  dismissal  in  due  form  at  the  hands  of  some 
"brother  in  the  bonds  of  the  Gospel." 

A  few  weeks  later,  Giles  Elderkin,  of  Ashfield,  "So 
ciety's  Committee,"  invited,  by  letter,  the  Reverend 
Benjamin  Johns  to  come  and  "  fill  their  pulpit  the  fol 
lowing  Lord's  day  ;"  and  added, —  "If  you  conclude  to 
preach  for  us,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you  put  up  at 
my  house  over  the  Sabbath." 

"  There  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Handby,  when  the  matter 
was  announced  in  family  conclave,  —  "  just  the  man  for 
them.  They  like  sober,  solid  preaching  in  Ashfield." 

"I  call  it  real  providential,"  said  Mrs.  Handby  ;  "fust- 
rate  folks,  and  'ta'n't  a  long  drive  over  for  EacheL" 

Little  Mrs.  Johns  looked  upon  the  grave,  earnest 
face  of  her  husband  with  delight  and  pride,  but  said 
nothing. 

"I  know  Squire  Elderkin,"  says  Mr.  Handby,  medi 
tatively, —  "a  clever  man,  and  a  forehanded  man, — 
very.  It's  a  rich  parish,  son-in-law  ;  they  ought  to  do 
well  by  you." 

"I  don't  like,"  says  Mr.  Johns,  "to  look  at  what  may 
become  my  spiritual  duty  in  that  light." 

'•'  I  wouldn't,''  returned  Mr.  Handby  ;  "  but  when  you 


i4  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

are  as  old  as  I  am,  son-in-law,  you'll  know  that  we  have 
to  keep  a  kind  of  side  look  upon  the  good  things  of 
this  world,  —  else  we  shouldn't  be  placed  in  it." 

"He  heareth  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry,"  said 
the  minister,  gravely. 

"  Just  it,"  says  Mr.  Handby  ;  "  but  I  don't  want  your 
young  ravens  to  be  crying." 

At  which  Rachel,  with  the  slightest  possible  suffusion 
of  color,  and  a  pretty  affectation  of  horror,  said,  — 

"  Now,  papa  ! " 

There  was  an  interruption  here,  and  the  conclave 
broke  up  ;  but  Rachel,  stepping  briskly  to  the  place  she 
loved  so  well,  beside  the  minister,  said,  softly,  — 

"  I  hope  you'll  go,  Benjamin ;  and  do,  please,  preach 
that  beautiful  sermon  on  Revelations." 


IV. 

Ashfield. 

THIRTY  or  forty  years  ago  there  lay  scattered  about 
over  Southern  New  England  a  great  many  quiet  in 
land  towns,  numbering  from  a  thousand  to  two  or  three 
thousand  inhabitants,  which  boasted  a  little  old-fash 
ioned  "  society  "  of  their  own,  — •  which  had  their  impor 
tant  men  who  were  heirs  to  some  snug  country  property, 
and  their  gambrel-roofed  houses  odorous  with  traditions 
of  old-time  visits  by  some  worthies  of  the  Colonial 
period,  or  of  the  Revolution.  The  good,  prim  dames, 


ASH  FIELD.  15 

in  starched  caps  and  spectacles,  who  presided  over  such 
houses,  were  proud  of  their  tidy  parlors,  —  of  their  old 
India  china,  —  of  their  beds  of  thyme  and  sage  in  the 
garden,  —  of  their  big  Family  Bible  with  brazen  clasps, 
—  and,  most  times,  of  their  minister. 

One  Orthodox  Congregational  Society  extended  its 
benignant  patronage  over  all  the  people  of  such  town  ; 
or,  if  a  stray  Episcopalian  or  Seven-Day  Baptist  were 
here  and  there  living  under  the  wing  of  the  parish, 
they  were  regarded  with  a  serene  and  stately  gravity, 
as  necessary  exceptions  to  the  law  of  Divine  Provi 
dence,  —  like  scattered  instances  of  red  hair  or  of  bow- 
legs  in  otherwise  well-favored  families. 

There  were  no  wires  stretching  over  the  country  to 
shock  the  nerves  of  the  good  gossips  with  the  thought 
that  their  neighbors  knew  more  than  they.  There  were 
no  heathenisms  of  the  cities,  no  tenpins,  no  travelling 
circus,  no  progressive  young  men  of  heretical  tenden 
cies.  Such  towns  were  as  quiet  as  a  sheepfold.  Saun 
tering  down  their  broad  central  street,  along  which  all 
the  houses  were  clustered  with  a  somewhat  dreary  uni 
formity  of  aspect,  one  might  of  a  summer's  day  hear  the 
rumble  of  the  town  mill  in  some  adjoining  valley,  busy 
with  the  town  grist  ;  in  autumn,  the  flip-flap  of  the 
flails  came  pulsing  on  the  ear  from  half  a  score  of  wide- 
open  barns  that  yawned  with  plenty  ;  and  in  winter,  the 
clang  of  axes  on  the  near  hills  smote  sharply  upon  the 
frosty  stillness,  and  would  be  straightway  followed  by 
the  booming  crash  of  some  great  tree. 

But  civilization  and  the  railways  have  debauched  all 


1 6  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

such  quiet,  stately,  steady  towns.  There  are  none  of 
them  left.  If  the  iron  cordon  of  travel,  by  a  little  diver 
gence,  has  spared  their  quietude,  leaving  them  stranded 
upon  a  beach  where  the  tide  of  active  business  never 
flows,  all  their  dignities  are  gone.  The  men  of  fore 
sight  and  enterprise  have  drifted  away  to  new  centres 
of  influence.  The  bustling  dames  in  starched  caps  have 
gone  down  childless  to  their  graves,  or,  disgusted  with 
gossip  at  second  hand,  have  sought  more  immediate 
contact  writh  the  world.  A  German  tailor,  may  be,  has 
hung  out  his  sign  over  the  door  of  some  mouldering 
mansion,  where,  in  other  days,  a  doughty  judge  of  the 
county  court,  with  a  great  raft  of  children,  kept  his  hon 
ors  and  his  family  warm.  A  slatternly  "  carry-all,"  with 
a  driver  who  reeks  of  bad  spirit,  keeps  up  uneasy  com 
munication  with  the  outside  world,  traversing  twice  or 
three  times  a  day  the  league  of  drive  which  lies  between 
the  post-office  and  the  railway-station.  A  few  iron- 
pated  farmers,  and  a  few  gentlemen  of  Irish  extraction 
who  keep  tavern  and  stores,  divide  among  themselves 
the  official  honors  of  the  town. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  people  maintain  their  old 
thrift  and  importance  by  actual  contact  with  some 
great  thoroughfare  of  travel,  their  old  quietude  is  ex 
ploded  ;  a  mushroom  station  has  sprung  up  ;  mush 
room  villas  flank  all  the  hills  ;  the  girls  wear  mushroom 
hats.  A  turreted  monster  of  a  chapel  from  some  flam 
boyant  tower  bellows  out  its  Sunday  warning  to  a  ne\v 
set  of  church-goers.  There  is  a  little  coterie  of  "  supe 
rior  intelligences,"  who  talk  of  the  humanities,  and 


ASHFIELD.  17 

diffuse  their  airy  rationalism  over  here  and  there  a  circle 
of  the  progressive  town.  Even  the  meeting-house, 
which  was  the  great  congregational  centre  of  the  town 
religion,  has  lost  its  venerable  air,  taken  off  by  some 
new  fancy  of  variegated  painting.  The  high,  square 
pews  are  turned  into  low-backed  seats,  that  flame  on  a 
summer  Sunday  with  such  gorgeous  millinery  as  would 
have  shocked  the  grave  people  of  thirty  years  ago.  The 
deep  bass  note  which  once  pealed  from  the  belfry  with 
a  solemn  and  solitary  dignity  of  sound  has  now  lost  it 
all  amid  the  jangle  of  a  half-dozen  bells  of  lighter  and 
airier  twang.  Even  the  parson  himself  will  not  be  that 
grave  man  of  stately  bearing,  who  met  the  rarest  fun 
only  benignantly,  and  to  whom  all  the  villagers  bowed  ; 
but  some  new  creature  full  of  the  logic  of  the  schools 
and  the  latest  conventionalisms  of  manner.  The  home 
spun  disciples  of  other  days  would  be  brought  griev 
ously  to  the  blush,  if  some  deep  note  of  the  old  bell 
should  suddenly  summon  them  to  the  presence  of  so 
fine  a  teacher,  encompassed  with  such  pretty  appliances 
of  upholstery  ;  and,  counting  their  chances  better  in  the 
strait  path  they  knew  on  uncarpeted  floors  and  between 
high  pews,  they  W7ould  slink  back  into  their  graves  con 
tent, —  all  the  more  content,  perhaps,  if  they  should 
listen  to  the  service  of  the  new  teacher,  and,  in  their 
common-sense  way,  reckon  what  chance  the  dapper 
talker  might  have  —  as  compared  with  the  solemn  so 
berness  of  the  old  pastor  —  in  opening  the  ponderous 
doors  for  them  upon  the  courts  above. 

Into  this  metamorphosed  condition  the  town  of  Ash- 


(i8  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

field  has  possibly  fallen  in  these  latter  days  ;  but  in  the 
good  year  1819,  when  the  Reverend  Benjamin  Johns 
was  invited  for  the  first  time  to  fill  its  pulpit  of  an  early 
autumn  Sunday,  it  was  still  in  possession  of  all  its  palmy 
quietude  and  of  its  ancient  cheery  importance.  And  to 
that  old  date  we  will  now  transfer  ourselves. 


V. 

Town  Worthies. 

T71VEKY  other  day  the  stage-coach  comes  into  Ash- 
J-^  field  from  the  north,  on  the  Hartford  turnpike,  and 
rumbles  through  the  main  street  of  the  town,  seesaw 
ing  upon  its  leathern  thoroughbraces.  Just  where  the 
pike  forks  into  the  main  northern  road,  and  where  the 
scattered  farm-houses  begin  to  group  more  thickly  along 
the  way,  the  country  Jehu  prepares  for  a  triumphant 
entry  by  giving  a  long,  clean  cut  to  the  lead-horses,  and 
two  or  three  shortened,  sharp  blows  with  his  doubled 
lash  to  those  upon  the  wheel ;  then,  moistening  his  lip, 
he  disengages  the  tin  horn  from  its  socket,  and,  with 
one  more  spirited  "  chirrup  "  to  his  team  and  a  petulant 
flirt  of  the  lines,  he  gives  out,  with  tremendous  explosive 
efforts,  a  series  of  blasts  that  are  heard  all  down  the 
street.  Here  and  there  a  blind  is  coyly  opened,  and 
some  old  dame  in  rufHed  cap  peers  out,  or  some  stout 
wench  at  a  backdoor  stands  gazing  with  her  arms  a- 
kimbo.  The  horn  rattles  back  into  its  socket  again  ; 


TOWN  WORTHIES.  19 

the  lines  are  tightened,  and  the  long  lash  smacks  once 
more  around  the  reeking  flanks  of  the  leaders.  Yonder, 
in  his  sooty  shop,  stands  the  smith,  keeping  up  with  hi.i 
elbow  a  lazy  sway  upon  his  bellows,  while  he  looks  ad 
miringly  over  coach  and  team,  and  gives  an  inquisitive 
glance  at  the  nigh  leader's  foot,  that  he  shod  only  yes 
terday.  A  flock  of  geese,  startled  from  a  mud-puddle 
through  which  the  coach  dashes  on,  rush  away  with  out 
stretched  necks,  and  wings  at  their  widest,  and  a  great 
uproar  of  gabble.  Two  school-girls — home  for  the 
nooning  —  are  idling  over  a  gateway,  half  swinging,  half 
musing,  gazing  intently.  There  is  a  garnbrel-roofed 
mansion,  with  a  balustrade  along  its  upper  pitch,  and 
quaint  ogees  of  ancient  joinery  over  the  hall-door  ;  and 
through  the  cleanly  scrubbed  parlor-windows  is  to  be 
seen  a  prim  dame,  who  turns  one  spectacled  glance  upon 
the  passing  coach,  and  then  resumes  her  sewing.  There 
are  red  houses,  with  their  corners  and  barge-boards 
dressed  off  with  white,  and  on  the  door-step  of  one  a 
green  tub  that  flames  with  a  great  pink  hydrangea. 
Scattered  along  the  way  are  huge  ashes,  sycamores,  elms, 
in  somewhat  devious  line  ;  and  from  a  pendent  bough 
of  one  of  these  last  a  trio  of  school-boys  are  seeking  to 
beat  down  the  swaying  nest  of  an  oriole  with  a  conver 
gent  fire  of  pebbles. 

The  coach  flounders  on,  —  past  an  old  house  with 
stone  chimney  (on  which  an  old  date  stands  coarsely 
cut),  and  with  front  door  divided  down  its  middle,  with 
a  huge  brazen  knocker  upon  its  right  half,  —  with  two 
St.  Luke's  crosses  in  its  lower  panels,  and  two  diamond- 


20  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

shaped  "  lights  "  above.  Hereabout  the  street  widens 
into  what  seems  a  common  ;  and  not  far  below,  sitting 
squarely  and  authoritatively  in  the  middle  of  the  com 
mon,  is  the  red-roofed  meeting-house,  with  tall  spire, 
and  in  its  shadow  the  humble  belfry  of  the  town  acad 
emy.  Opposite  these  there  comes  into  the  main  street 
a  highway  from  the  east ;  and  upon  one  of  the  corners 
thus  formed  stands  the  Eagle  Tavern,  its  sign  creaking 
appetizingly  on  a  branch  of  an  overhanging  sycamore, 
under  which  the  stage-coach  dashes  up  to  the  tavern- 
door,  to  unlade  its  passengers  for  dinner,  and  to  find  a 
fresh  relay  of  horses. 

Upon  the  opposite  corner  is  the  country  store  of  Abner 
Tew,  Esq.,  postmaster  during  the  successive  administra 
tions  of  Mr.  Madison  and  Mr.  Monroe.  He  comes  out 
presently  from  his  shop-door,  which  is  divided  horizon 
tally,  the  upper  half  being  open  in  all  ordinary  weathers  ; 
and  the  lower  half,  as  he  closes  it  after  him,  gives  a 
warning  jingle  to  a  little  bell  within.  A  spare,  short, 
hatchet-faced  man  is  Abner  Tew,  who  walks  over  with  a 
prompt  business-step  to  receive  a  leathern  pouch  from 
the  stage-driver.  He  returns  with  it,  —  a  few  eager 
towns-people  following  upon  his  steps,  —  recnters  his 
shop,  and  delivers  the  pouch  within  a  glazed  door  in 
the  corner,  where  the  postmistress  ex  qfficio,  Mrs.  Ab 
ner  Tew,  a  tall,  gaunt  woman  in  black  bombazine  and 
spectacles,  proceeds  to  assort  the  Ashfield  mail.  By 
reason  of  this  division  of  duties,  the  shop  is  known  fa 
miliarly  as  the  shop  of  "the  Tew  partners." 

Among  the  waiting  expectants  who  loiter  about  among 


TOWN  WORTHIES.  21 

the  sugar-barrels  of  the  grocery  department,  there  pres 
ently  appears  —  with  a  new  tinkle  of  the  little  bell  — 
a  stout,  ruddy  man,  just  past  middle  age,  in  broad- 
brimmed  white  beaver  and  sober  homespun  suit,  who 
is  met  with  a  deferential  "  Good  day,  Squire,"  from  one 
and  another,  as  he  falls  successively  into  short  parley 
with  them  :  a  self-possessed,  cheery  man,  who  has  strong 
opinions,  and  does  not  fear  to  express  them  ;  Selectman 
for  the^last  eight  years,  who  has  presided  in  town-meet 
ing  time  out  of  mind  ;  member  of  the  Legislature,  and 
once  a  Senator  for  the  district.  This  was  Giles  Elder- 
kin,  Esq.,  the  gentleman  who,  on  behalf  of  the  Ecclesi 
astical  Society,  had  conducted  the  correspondence  with 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Johns  ;  and  he  was  now  waiting  his 
reply.  This  is  presently  brought  to  him  by  the  post 
mistress,  who,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  Squire  through 
the  glazed  door,  has  taken  the  precaution  to  adjust  her 
cap-strings  and  dexterously  to  flirt  one  or  two  of  the 
more  apparent  creases  out  of  her  dingy  bombazine. 
The  letter  brings  acceptance,  which  the  Squire,  having 
made  out  by  piivate  study  near  to  the  dusky  window, 
announces  to  Mrs.  TewT,  —  begging  her  to  inform  the 
people  wrho  should  happen  in  from  "up  the  road." 

"I  hope  he'll  suit,  Squire,"  says  Mrs.  Tew. 

"  I  hope  he  may,  —  hope  he  may,  Mrs.  Tew  ;  I  hear 
well  of  him ;  there's  good  blood  in  him.  I  knew  his 
father,  the  Major,  —  likely  man.  I  hope  he  may,  Mrs. 
Tew." 

And  the  Squire,  having  penned  a  little  notice,  by 
favor  of  one  of  the  Tew  partners,  proceeds  to  affix  it  to 


22  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  meeting-house  door ;  after  which  he  walks  to  his 
own  house,  with  the  assured  step  of  a  man  who  is  con 
scious  of  having  accomplished  an  important  duty.  It 
is  the  very  house  we  just  now  saw  with  the  ponderous 
ogees  over  its  front,  the  balustrade  upon  its  roof,  and 
the  dame  in  spectacles  at  the  window  ;  this  latter  being 
the  spinster,  Miss  Meacham,  elder  sister  to  the  wife  of 
the  Squire,  and  taking  upon  herself,  with  active  zeal 
and  a  neatness  that  knew  no  bounds,  the  office  of  house 
keeper.  This  was  rendered  necessary  in  a  manner  by 
the  engagement  of  Mrs.  Elderkin  with  a  group  of  young 
flax-haired  children,  and  periodic  threats  of  addition  to 
the  same.  The  hospitalities  of  the  house  were  fully  es 
tablished,  and  no  state  official  could  visit  the  town  with 
out  hearty  invitation  to  the  Squire's  table.  The  spinster 
received  the  announcement  of  the  minister's  coming 
with  a  quiet  gravity,  and  betook  herself  to  the  needed 
preparation. 


VI. 

Home  Established. 

MR.   JOHNS,    meanwhile,    when    he    had   left    the 
Handby  parlor,  where  we  saw  him  last,  and  was 
fairly  upon  the  stair,  had  replied  to  the  suggestion  of 
his  little  wife  about  the  sermon  on  Revelations  with  a 
fugitive  kiss,  and  said,  "I  will  think  of  it,  Rachel." 
And  he  did  think  of  it,  —  thought  of  it  so  well,  that 


HOME  ESTABLISHED.  23 

he  left  the  beautiful  sermon  in  his  drawer,  and  took 
with  him  a  couple  of  strong  doctrinal  discourses,  upon 
the  private  hearing  of  which  his  charming  wife  had 
commented  by  dropping  asleep  (poor  thing !)  in  her 
chair. 

But  the  strong  men  and  women  of  Ashfield  relished 
them  better.  There  was  a  sermon  for  the  morning  on 
"  Regeneration  the  work  only  of  grace  ; "  and  another 
for  the  afternoon,  on  the  outer  leaf  of  which  was  writ 
ten,  in  the  parson's  bold  hand,  "  The  doctrine  of  Elec 
tion  compatible  with  the  infinite  goodness  of  God."  It 
is  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the  better,  or  which 
commended  itself  most  to  the  church  full  of  people  who 
listened.  Deacon  Tourtelot,  —  a  short,  wiry  man,  with 
reddish  whiskers  brushed  primly  forward,  —  sitting  un 
der  the  very  droppings  of  the  pulpit,  with  painful  erect- 
ness,  and  listening  grimly  throughout,  was  inclined  to 
the  sermon  of  the  morning.  Dame  Tourtelot,  who  over 
topped  her  husband  by  half  a  head,  and  from  her  great 
scoop  hat,  trimmed  with  green,  kept  her  keen  eyes  fas 
tened  intently  upon  the  minister  on  trial,  was  enlisted 
in  the  same  belief,  until  she  heard  the  Deacon's  timid 
expression  of  preference,  when  she  pounced  upon  him, 
and  declared  for  the  Election  discourse.  It  was  not  her 
way  to  allow  him  to  enjoy  an  opinion  of  his  own  get 
ting.  Miss  Alrnira,  their  only  child,  and  now  grown 
into  a  spare  womanhood,  that  was  decorated  with  an 
other  scoop  hat  akin  to  the  mother's,  —  from  under 
which  hung  two  yeUow  festoons  of  ringlets  tied  with 
lively  blue  ribbons,  —  was  steadfastly  observant  ; 


24  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

though  wearing  a  fagged  air  before  the  day  was  over, 
and  consulting  on  one  or  two  occasions  a  little  phial  of 
"  salts,"  with  a  side  movement  of  the  head,  and  an  in 
quiring  nostril. 

Squire  Elderkin,  having  thrown  himself  into  a  com 
fortable  position  in  the  corner  of  his  square  pew,  is 
cheerfully  attentive ;  and  at  one  or  two  of  the  more 
marked  passages  of  the  sermon  bestows  a  nod  of  ap 
proval,  and  a  glance  at  Miss  Meacham  and  Mrs.  Elder- 
kin,  to  receive  their  acknowledgment  of  the  same.  The 
young  Elderkins  (of  whom  three  are  of  meeting-house 
size)  are  variously  affected  ;  Miss  Dora,  being  turned 
of  six,  wears  an  air  of  some  weariness,  and  having 
despatched  all  the  edible  matter  upon  a  stalk  of  cara 
way,  she  uses  the  despoiled  brush  in  keeping  the 
youngest  boy,  Ned,  in  a  state  of  uneasy  wakefulness. 
Bob,  ranking  between  the  two  in  point  of  years,  and 
being  mechanically  inclined,  devotes  himself  to  turning 
in  their  sockets  the  little  bobbins  which  form  a  balus 
trade  around  the  top  of  the  pew  ;  but  being  diverted 
from  this  very  suddenly  by  a  sharp  squeak  that  calls 
the  attention  of  his  Aunt  Joanna,  he  assumes  the  peni 
tential  air  of  listener  for  full  five  minutes  ;  afterward  he 
relieves  himself  by  constructing  a  small  meeting-house 
out  of  the  psalm-books  and  Bible,  his  Aunt  Joanna's 
spectacle-case  serving  for  a  steeple. 

There  was  an  air  of  subdued  reverence  in  the  new 
clergyman,  which  was  not  only  agreeable  to  the  people 
in  itself,  but  seemed  to  very  many  thoughtful  ones  to 
imply  a  certain  respect  for  them  and  for  the  parish. 


HOME  ESTABLISHED.  25 

Deacon  Tourtelot,  sidling  down  the  aisle  after  service, 
out  of  hearing  of  his  consort,  says  to  Elderkin,  "  Smart 
man,  Squire." 

And  the  Squire  nods  acquiescence.  "  Sound  ser- 
monizer,  —  sound  sermonizer,  Deacon. " 

These  two  opinions  were  as  good  as  a  majority-vote 
in  the  town  of  Ashfield,  —  all  the  more  since  the  Squire 
was  a  thorough-going  Jeffersonian  Democrat,  and  the 
Deacon  a  warm  Federalist,  so  far  as  the  poor  man 
could  be  warm  at  any  thing,  who  was  on  the  alert  every 
hour  of  his  life  to  escape  the  hammer  of  his  wife's 
reproaches. 

So  it  happened  that  the  parish  was  called  together, 
and  an  invitation  extended  to  Brother  Johns  to  con 
tinue  his  ministrations  for  a  month  further.  Of  course 
the  novitiate  understood  this  to  be  the  crucial  test ;  and 
he  accepted  it  with  a  composure,  and  a  lack  of  imperti 
nent  effort  to  please  them  overmuch,  which  altogether 
charmed  them.  On  four  successive  Saturdays  he  drove 
over  to  Ashfield,  —  sometimes  stopping  with  one  or  the 
other  of  the  two  deacons,  and  at  other  times  with  Squire 
Elderkin,  —  and  on  one  or  two  occasions  taking  his 
wife  by  special  invitation.  Of  her,  too,  the  people  of 
Ashfield  had  but  one  opinion  :  that  she  was  of  a  ductile 
temper  was  most  easy  to  be  seen  ;  and  there  was  not  a 
strong-minded  woman  of  the  parish  but  anticipated 
with  delight  the  power  and  pleasure  of  moulding  her  to 
her  wishes.  The  husband  continued  to  preach  agree 
ably  to  their  notions  of  orthodoxy,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
month  they  gave  him  a  "  call,"  with  the  promise  of  four 


26  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

hundred  dollars  a  year,  besides  sundry  odds  and  ends 
made  up  by  donation  visits  and  otherwise. 

This  sum,  which  was  not  an  inconsiderable  one  for 
those  days,  enabled  the  clergyman  to  rent  as  a  parson 
age  the  old  house  we  have  seen,  with  the  big  brazen 
knocker,  and  diamond  lights  in  either  half  of  its  green 
door.  It  stood  under  the  shade  of  two  huge  ashes,  at 
a  little  remove  back  from  the  street,  and  within  easy 
walk  from  the  central  common.  A  heavy  dentilated 
cornice,  from  which  the  paint  was  peeling  away  in  flaky 
patches,  hung  over  the  windows  of  the  second  floor. 
Within  the  door  was  a  little  entry  —  (for  years  and 
years  the  pastor's  hat  and  cane  used  to  lie  upon  a  table 
that  stood  just  within  the  door)  ;  from  the  entry  a 
cramped  stairway,  by  three  sharp  angles,  led  to  the 
floor  above.  To  the  right  and  left  were  two  low  par 
lors.  The  sun  was  shining  broadly  in  the  south  one 
when  the  couple  first  entered  the  house. 

"  Good  ! "  said  Rachel,  with  her  pleasant,  brisk  tone, 
— ' '  this  shall  be  your  study,  Benjamin  ;  the  bookcase 
here,  the  table  there,  a  nice  warm  carpet,  wre'll  paper 
it  with  blue,  the  Major's  sword  shall  be  hung  over  the 
mantel." 

"  Tut !  tut !  "  says  the  clergyman  ;  "  a  sword,  Eachel, 
—  in  my  study  ?  " 

"To  be  sure!  why  not?"  says  Eachel.  "And  if 
you  like,  I  will  hang  my  picture,  with  the  doves  and  the 
olive-branch,  above  it ;  and  there  shall  be  a  shelf  for 
hyacinths  in  the  window." 

Thus  she  ran  on  in  her  pretty  housewifely  manner, 


HOME  ESTABLISHED.  27 

cooing  like  the  doves  she  talked  of,  plotting  the  ar 
rangement  of  the  parlor  opposite,  of  the  long  dining- 
room  stretching  athwart  the  house  in  the  rear,  and  of 
the  kitchen  under  a  roof  of  its  own,  still  farther  back, 
—  he  all  the  while  giving  grave  assent,  as  if  he  listened 
to  her  contrivance  ;  he  was  only  listening  to  the  music 
of  a  sweet  voice  that  somehow  charmed  his  ear,  and 
thanking  God  in  his  heart  that  such  music  was  be 
stowed  upon  a  sinful  world,  and  praying  that  he  might 
never  listen  too  fondly. 

Behind  the  house  were  yard,  garden,  orchard,  and 
this  last  drooping  away  to  a  meadow.  Over  all  these 
the  paii*  of  light  feet  pattered  beside  the  master. 
"Here  shall  be  lilies,"  she  said;  "there,  a  great  bun cli 
of  mother's  peonies ;  and  by  the  gate,  hollyhocks  ;"  — 
he,  by  this  time,  plotting  a  sermon  upon  the  vanities  of 
the  world. 

Yet  in  due  time  it  came  to  pass  that  the  parsonage 
was  all  arranged  according  to  the  fancies  of  its  mis 
tress,  —  even  to  the  Major's  sword  and  the  twin  doves. 
Esther,  a  stout  middle-aged  dame,  and  stanch  Congre- 
gationalist,  recommended  by  the  good  women  of  the 
parish,  is  installed  in  the  kitchen  as  maid-of-all-work. 
As  gardener,  groom  (a  sedate  pony  and  square-topped 
chaise  forming  part  of  the  establishment),  factotum,  in 
short,  —  there  is  the  frowzy-headed  man  Larkin,  who 
has  his  quarters  in  an  airy  loft  above  the  kitchen. 

The  brass  knocker  is  scoured  to  its  brightest.  The 
parish  is  neighborly.  Dame  Tourtelot  is  impressive  in 
her  proffers  of  advice.  The  Tew  partners,  Elderkin, 


28  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Meacham,  and  all  the  rest,  meet  the  new  housekeeper* 
open-handed.  Before  mid- winter,  the  smoke  of  this 
new  home  was  piling  lazily  into  the  sky  above  the  tree- 
tops  of  Ashfield,  —  a  home,  as  we  shall  find  by  and  by, 
of  much  trial  and  much  cheer.  Twenty  years  after, 
and  the  master  of  it  was  master  of  it  still,  —  strong, 
seemingly,  as  ever ;  the  brass  knocker  shining  on  the 
door  ;  the  sword  and  the  doves  in  place.  But  the  pat 
tering  feet,  —  the  voice  that  made  music,  —  the  tender, 
wifely  plotting,  —  the  cheery  sunshine  that  smote  upon 
her  as  she  talked,  —  alas  for  us  !  —  "  All  is  Vanity  !  " 


vn. 

The  Owl  and  Sparrow. 

IT  was  not  easy  in  that  day  to  bring  together  the 
opinions  of  a  Connecticut  parish  that  had  been 
jostled  apart  by  a  parochial  quarrel,  and  where  old 
grievances  were  festering.  Indeed,  it  is  never  easy  to 
do  this,  and  unite  opinions  upon  a  new-comer,  unless  he 
have  some  rare  gift  of  eloquence,  which  so  dazes  the  good 
people  that  they  can  no  longer  remember  their  petty 
griefs,  or  unless  he  manage  with  rare  tact  to  pass  lightly 
over  the  sore  points,  and  to  anoint  them  by  a  careful 
hand  with  such  healing  salves  as  he  can  concoct  out  of 
his  pastoral  charities.  Mr.  Johns  had  neither  art  nor 
eloquence,  as  commonly  understood  ;  yet  he  effected  a 
blending  of  all  interests  by  the  simple,  earnest  gravity  of 


THE    Oll'L    AXD   SPARROW.  29 

his  character.  He  ignored  all  angry  disputation  ;  he 
ignored  its  results.  He  canie  as  a  shepherd  to  a  deserted 
sheepfold  ;  he  came  to  preach  the  Bible  doctrines  in 
their  literalness.  He  had  no  reproofs,  save  for  those 
who  refused  the  offers  of  God's  mercy, —  no  commenda 
tion,  save  for  those  who  sought  His  grace  whose  favor  is 
life  e^^'lasting.  There  were  no  metaphysical  niceties  in 
his  discourses,  athwart  which  keen  disputants  might 
poise  themselves  for  close  and  angry  conflict  ;  he  recog 
nized  no  necessities  but  the  great  ones  of  repentance 
and  faith  ;  and  all  the  mysteries  of  the  "Will  he  was  ac 
customed  to  solve  by  grand  utterance  of  that  text  which 
he  loved  above  all  others, —  however  much  it  may  have 
troubled  him  in  his  discussion  of  Election, — "  "Whosoever 
will,  let  him  come  and  drink  of  the  water  of  life  freely." 
Inheriting  as  he  did  ail  the  religious  affinities  of  his 
mother,  these  were  compacted  and  made  sensitive  by 
years  of  silent  protest  against  the  proud  worldly  suffi 
ciency  of  his  father,  the  Major.  Such  qualities  and  ex 
perience  found  repose  in  the  unyielding  dogmas  of  the 
Westminster  divines.  At  thirty  the  clergyman  was  as 
aged  as  most  men  of  forty-five, — seared  by  the  severity 
of  his  opinions,  and  the  unshaken  tenacity  with  which 
he  held  them.  He  was  by  nature  a  quiet,  almost  a  timid 
man  ;  but  over  the  old  white  desk  and  crimson  cushion, 
with  the  choir  of  singers  in  his  front  and  the  Bible  under 
his  hand,  he  grew  into  wonderful  boldness.  He  cher 
ished  an  exalted  idea  of  the  dignity  of  his  office,  —  a 
dignity  which  he  determined  to  maintain  to  the  utmost 
of  his  power  ;  but  in  the  pulpit  only  did  the  full  meas- 


30  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ure  of  this  exaltation  come  over  him.  Thence  he  looked 
down  serenely  upon  the  flock  of  which  he  was  the  ap 
pointed  guide,  and  among  whom  his  duty  lay.  The 
shepherd  leading  his  sheep  was  no  figure  of  speech  for 
him  ;  he  was  commissioned  to  their  care,  and  was  con 
ducting  them  —  old  men  and  maidens,  boys  and  gray- 
haired  women  —  athwart  the  dangers  of  the  world, 
toward  the  great  fold.  On  one  side  always  the  fires  of 
hell  were  gaping  ;  and  on  the  other  were  blazing  the 
great  candlesticks  around  the  throne.  • 

But  when,  on  some  occasion,  he  had,  under  the  full 
weight  of  his  office,  inveighed  against  a  damning  evil, 
and,  as  he  fondly  hoped  by  the  stillness  in  the  old  meet 
ing-house,  wrought  upon  sinners  effectually,  it  was  dis 
heartening  to  be  met  by  some  hoary  member  of  his 
flock,  whom  perhaps  he  had  borne  particularly  in  mind, 
and  to  be  greeted  cheerfully  with,  "  Capital  sermon,  Mr. 
Johns  !  those  are  the  sort  that  do  the  business  !  I  like 
those,  parson  !  "  The  poor  man,  humiliated,  would  bo,w 
his  thanks.  He  lacked  the  art  (if  it  be  an  art)  to  press 
the  matter  home,  when  he  met  one  of  his  parishioners 
thus.  Not  that  he  forgot  the  dignity  of  his  position  for 
a  moment,  but  he  wore  it  too  trenchantly ;  he  could 
never  unbend  to  the  free  play  of  side-talk.  Always  the 
weight  of  his  solemn  duties  pressed  sorely  on  him  ;  al 
ways  amid  pitfalls  he  was  conducting  his  little  flock 
toward  the  glories  of  the  Great  Court. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  by  reason  of  this  grave  taci 
turnity  the  clergyman  won  more  surely  upon  the  respect 
of  his  people.  "He  is  engrossed,"  said  they,  "with 


THE   OWL   AND  SPARROW.  31 

greater  matters  ;  and  in  all  secular  affairs  he  recognizes 
our  superior  discernment.'*  Thus  his  inaptitude  in  cur 
rent  speech  was  construed  by  them  into  a  delicate 
flattery,  and  it  happened  that  good  Mr.  Johns  carne  to 
win  the  good-will  of  all  the  parish  of  Ashfield,  while  he 
challenged  their  respect  by  his  uniform  gravity.  It 
is  even  possible  that  a  consciousness  of  a  certain  stateli- 
ness  and  stiffness  of  manner  became  in  some  measure  a 
source  of  pride  to  him,  and  that  he  enjoyed,  in  his  sub 
dued  way,  the  disposition  of  the  lads  of  the  town  to  give 
him  a  wide  pass,  instead  of  brushing  brusquely  against 
him,  as  if  he  were  some  other  than  the  parson. 
In  those  days  he  wrote  to  his  sister  Eliza,  — 
"  We  are  fairly  settled  in  a  pleasant  home  upon  the 
main  street.  The  meeting-house,  which  you  will  re 
member,  is  near  by  ;  and  I  have,  by  the  blessing  of 
God,  a  full  attendance  every  Lord's  day.  They  listen 
to  my  poor  sermons  with  commendable  earnestness ; 
and  I  trust  they  may  prove  to  them  '  a  savor  of  life  unto 
life.'  We  also  find  the  people  of  the  town  neighborly 
and  kind.  Squire  Elderkin  has  proved  particularly  so, 
and  is  a  very  energetic  man  in  all  matters  relating  to 
the  parish.  I  fear  greatly,  however,  that  he  still  lacks 
the  intimate  favor  of  God,  and  has  not  humbled  himself 
to  entire  submission.  Yet  he  is  constant  in  his  obser 
vance  of  nearly  all  the  outward  forms  of  devotion  and 
of  worship  ;  and  we  hear  of  his  charities  in  every  house 
we  enter.  Strange  mystery  of  Providence,  that  he  should 
not  long  since  have  been  broken  down  by  grace,  and 
become  in  all  things  a  devout  follower  of  the  Master ! 


32  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

His  wife  is  a  most  excellent  person,  lowly  in  her  faith, 
and  zealous  of  good  works.  The  same  may  also  be  said 
of  their  worthy  maiden  sister,  Miss  Joanna  Meacham, 
who  is,  of  a  truth,  a  matron  in  Israel.  Rachel  and  my 
self  frequently  take  tea  at  their  house  ;  and  she  is  much 
interested  in  the  little  family  of  Elderkins,  who,  I  am 
glad  to  say,  enjoy  excellent  advantages,  and  such  of 
them  as  are  of  proper  age  are  duly  taught  in  the  Short 
er  Westminster  Catechism. 

"Deacon  Tourtelot,  another  of  our  neighbors,  is  a 
devout  man  ;  and  Dame  Tourtelot  (as  she  is  commonly 
called)  is  a  woman  of  quite  extraordinary  zeal  and  ca 
pacity.  Their  daughter  Almira  is  untiring  in  atten 
dance,  and  aids  the  services  by  singing  treble.  Deacon 
Simmons,  who  lives  at  quite  a  distance  from  us,  is  re 
presented  to  be  a  man  of  large  means  and  earnest  in  the 
faith.  He  has  a  large  farm,  and  also  a  distillery,  both 
of  which  are  said  to  be  managed  with  great  foresight 
and  prudence.  I  trust  that  the  reports  which  I  hear 
occasionally  of  his  penuriousness  are  not  wholly  true, 
and  that  in  due  time  his  hand  will  be  opened  by  divine 
grace  to  a  more  effectual  showing  forth  of  the  deeds  of 
charity.  Our  home  aifairs  are,  I  believe,  managed  pru 
dently,  —  the  two  servants  being  most  excellent  persons, 
and  my  little  Rachel  a  very  sunbeam  in  the  house." 

And  the  little  sunbeam  writes  to  Mrs.  Handby  at 
about  the  same  date,  —  we  will  say  from  six  to  eight 
months  after  their  entry,  — 

"  Everything  goes  on  delightfully,  dear  mamma.  •  Es 
ther  is  a  good  creature,  and  helps  me  wonderfully.  You 


THE    OWL   AND   SPARROW. 


33 


would  laugh  to  see  me  fingering  the  raw  meats  at  the 
butcher's  cart  to  choose  nice  pieces,  which  I  really  can 
do  now  ;  and  it  is  fortunate  I  can,  for  the  goodman  Ben 
jamin  knows  positively  nothing  of  such  things,  and  I  am 
sure  wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  mutton  from  beef. 

"The  little  parlor  is  nicely  furnished;  there  is  an 
elegant  hair  sofa,  and  over  the  mantel  is  the  portrait 
of  Major  Johns  ;  and  then  the  goodman  has  insisted 
upon  hanging  under  the  looking-glass  my  old  sampler 
in  crewel,  with  a  gilt  frame  around  it ;  on  the  table  is 
the  illustrated  '  Pilgrim's  Progress '  papa  gave  me,  and 
a  volume  of  '  Calmet's  Dictionary '  I  have  taken  out  of 
the  study,  —  it  is  full  of  such  beautiful  pictures,  —  and 
*  Mrs.  Hannah  More '  in  full  gilt.  The  big  Bible  you 
gave  us,  the  goodman  says,  is  too  large  for  easy  hand 
ling  ;  so  it  is  kept  on  a  stand  in  the  corner,  with  the 
great  fly-brush  of  peacock's  feathers  hanging  over  it.  I 
have  put  charming  blue  chintz  curtains  in  the  spare 
chamber,  and  arranged  every  thing  there  very  nicely ; 
so  that  before  a  certain  event,  you  must  be  sure  to  come 
and  take  possession. 

"Last  night  we  took  tea  again  with  the  Elderkins, 
and  ]\Irs.  Elderkin  was  as  kind  to  me  as  ever,  and  Miss 
Meacham  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  the  little  ones  are 
loves  of  children  ;  and  I  wish  you  could  see  them.  But 
you  will,  you  know,  quite  soo??.  Sometimes  I  fall  to 
crying,  when  I  think  of  it  all ;  and  then  the  goodman 
comes  and  puts  his  hand  on  my  head,  and  says, — 
'  Eachel !  Rachel,  my  dear  !  is  this  your  gratitude  for 
all  God's  mercies  ? '  And  then  I  jump  up,  and  kiss  his 
3 


34  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

grave  face,  and  laugh  through  my  tears.  He  is  a  dear 
good  man.  This  is  all  very  foolish,  I  suppose  ;  but, 
mamma,  isn't  it  the  way  with  all  women  ? 

"  Dame  Tourtelot  is  a  great  storm  of  a  creature,  and 
she  comes  down  upon  us  every  now  and  then,  and  ad 
vises  me  about  the  housekeeping  and  the  table,  and  the 
servants,  and  Benjamin,  —  giving  me  a  great  many 
good  hints,  I  suppose  ;  but  in  such  a  way,  and  calling 
me  'my  child/  as  makes  me  feel  good  for  nothing,  and 
as  if  I  were  not  fit  to  be  mistress.  Miss  Almira  is  a 
quiet  thing,  and  has  a  piano.  She  dresses  very  queerly, 
and,  I  have  been  told,  has  written  poetry  for  the  '  Hart 
ford  Courant,'  over  two  stars  —  *  *.  She  seems  a  good 
creature,  though,  and  comes  to  see  us  often.  The 
chaise  is  a  great  comfort,  and  our  old  horse  Dobbins  is 
a  good,  sober  horse.  Benjamin  often  takes  me  with 
him  in  his  drives  to  see  the  parishioners  who  live  out 
of  town.  He  tells  me  about  the  trees  and  the  flowers, 
and  a  thousand  matters  I  never  heard  of.  Indeed,  he  is 
a  good  man,  and  he  knows  a  world  of  things." 

The  tender-hearted,  kind  soul  makes  her  way  into  the 
best  graces  of  the  people  of  Ashfield;  the  older  ones 
charmed  with  that  blithe  spirit  of  hers,  and  all  the 
younger  ones  mating  easily  with  her  simple,  outspoken 
naturalness.  She  goes  freely  everywhere ;  she  is  not 
stiffened  by  any  ceremony,  nor  does  she  carry  any 
stately  notions  of  the  dignity  of  her  office,  —  some  few 
there  may  be  who  wish  that  she  had  a  keener  sense  of 
the  importance  of  her  position  ;  she  even  bursts  unan 
nounced  into  the  little  glazed  corner  of  the  Tew  part- 


AN  ACCOMPLISHED   SINNER. 


35 


ners,  where  she  prattles  away  with  the  sedate  Mistress 
Tew  in  good,  kindly  fashion,  winning  that  stiff  old 
lady's  heart,  and  moving  her  to  declare  to  all  customers 
that  the  parson's  wife  has  no  pride  about  her,  and  is  "  a 
dear  little  thing,  to  be  sure  !  " 

On  summer  evenings,  Dobbins  is  to  be  seen,  two  or 
three  times  in  the  week,  jogging  along  before  the 
square-topped  chaise,  upon  some  highway  that  leads 
into  the  town,  with  the  parson  seated  within,  with  slack 
ened  rein,  and  in  thoughtful  mood,  from  which  he  rouses 
himself  from  time  to  time  with  a  testy  twitch  and  noisy 
chirrup  that  urge  the  poor  beast  into  a  faster  gait.  All 
the  while  the  little  wife  sits  beside  him,  as  if  a  twitter 
ing  sparrow  had  nestled  itself  upon  the  same  perch  with 
some  grave  owl,  and  sat  with  him  side  by  side,  watching 
for  the  big  eyes  to  turn  upon  her,  and  chirping  some 
pretty  response  for  every  solemn  utterance  of  the  wise 
old  bird  beside  her. 


vni. 

An  Accomplished  Sinner. 

ON  the  return  from  one  of  these  parochial  drives, 
not  long  after  their  establishment  at  Ashfield,  it- 
happened  that  the  good  parson  and  his  wife  were  not  a 
little  startled  at  sight  of  a  stranger  lounging  familiarly 
at  their  door.  A  little  roof  jutted  out  over  the  entrance 
to  the  parsonage,  without  any  apparent  support,  and 


36  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

flanking  the  door  were  two  plank  seats,  with  their  ends 
toward  the  street,  cut  away  into  the  shape  of  those  "  set 
tles"  which  used  to  be  seen  in  country  taverns,  and 
which  here  seemed  to  invite  a  quiet  out-of-door  gossip. 
But  the  grave  manner  of  the  parson  had  never  invited 
to  a  very  familiar  use  of  this  loitering-place,  even  by 
the  most  devoted  of  the  parishioners  ;  and  the  appear 
ance  of  a  stranger  of  some  two-and-thirty  years,  with 
something  in  his  manner,  as  much  as  in  his  dress,  which 
told  of  large  familiarity  with  the  world,  lounging  upon 
this  little  porch,  had  amazed  the  passers-by,  as  much  as  it 
now  did  the  couple  who  drove  up  slowly  in  the  square- 
topped  chaise. 

"  Who  can  it  be,  Benjamin  ?  "  says  Rachel. 

"I  really  can't  say,"  returns  the  parson. 

"  He  seems  very  much  at  home,  my  dear,"  —  as  indeed 
he  does,  with  his  feet  stretched  out  upon  the  bench,  and 
eying  curiously  the  approaching  vehicle. 

As  it  draws  near,  his  observation  being  apparently 
satisfactory,  he  walks  briskly  down  to  the  gate,  and 
greets  the  parson  with,  — 

"  My  dear  Johns,  I  'm  delighted  to  see  you  !  " 

At  this  the  parson  knew  him. 

"  Maverick,  upon  my  word  !  "  and  he  offers  his  hand. 

"And  this  is  Mrs.  Johns,  I  suppose,"  says  the  stran 
ger,  bowing  graciously.  "  Allow  me,  madam  ; "  and  he 
assists  her  to  alight.  "Your  husband  and  myself  were 
old  college-friends,  partners  of  the  same  bench,  and  I  Ve 
used  no  ceremony,  you  see,  in  finding  him  out." 

Rachel,  eying  him  furtively,  and  with  a  little  rustic 


AN  ACCOMPLISHED   SINNER.  37 

courtesy,  "is  glad  to  see  any  of  her  husband's  old 
friends." 

The  parson  —  upon  his  feet  now  —  shakes  the  stran 
ger's  hand  heartily  again. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Maverick  ;  but  I  thought 
you  were  out  of  the  country." 

"  So  I  have  been,  Johns  ;  am  home  only  upon  a  visit, 
and  hearing  by  accident  that  you  had  become  a  clergy 
man  —  as  I  always  thought  you  would  —  and  were  set 
tled  hereabout,  I  determined  to  run  down  and  see  you 
before  sailing  again." 

"You  must  stop  with  me.  Rachel,  dear,  will  you  have 
the  spare  room  made  ready  for  Mr.  Maverick  ?  " 

"My  dear  madam,  don't  give  yourself  the  least 
trouble  ;  I  am  an  old  traveller,  and  can  make  myself 
quite  comfortable  at  the  tavern  yonder  ;  but  if  it 's  alto 
gether  convenient,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  pass  the  night 
under  the  roof  of  my  old  friend.  I  shall  be  off  to-morrow 
noon,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  parson,  "  and  until 
then  I  want  you  to  put  off  your  sermons  and  make  me 
one  of  your  parishioners." 

So  they  all  went  into  the  parsonage  together. 

Frank  Maverick,  as  he  had  said,  had  shared  the  same 
bench  with  Johns  in  college  ;  and  between  them,  unlike 
as  they  were  in  character,  there  had  grown  up  a  strong 
friendship,  —  one  of  those  singular  intimacies  which 
bind  the  gravest  men  to  the  most  cheery  and  reckless. 
Maverick  was  forever  running  into  scrapes  and  consult 
ing  the  cool  head  of  Johns  to  help  him  out  of  them. 
Johns  advised  with  him  (giving  as  serious  advice  then  as 


38  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

he  could  now),  and  added  from  time  to  time  such  assis 
tance  in  his  studies  as  a  plodding  man  can  always  lend 
to  one  of  quick  brain,  who  makes  no  reckoning  of 
time. 

Upon  a  certain  occasion  Maverick  had  gone  over  with 
Johns  to  his  home,  and  the  Major  had  taken  an  immense 
fancy  to  the  buoyant  young  fellow,  so  full  of  spirits,  and 
so  charmingly  frank.  "  If  your  characters  could  only  be 
welded  together,"  he  used  to  say  to  his  son,  "  you  would 
both  be  the  better  for  it ;  he  a  little  of  your  gravity,  and 
you  something  of  his  rollicking  carelessness."  This 
bound  Johns  to  his  friend  more  closely  than  ever.  There 
was,  moreover,  great  honesty  and  conscientiousness  in 
the  lad's  composition  ;  he  could  beat  in  a  tutor's  window 
for  the  frolic  of  the  thing,  and  by  way  of  paying  ofi 
some  old  grudge  for  a  black  mark  ;  but  there  was  a 
strong  spice  of  humanity  at  the  bottom  even  of  his 
frolics.  It  happened  one.  day,  that  his  friend  Ben  Johns 
told  him  that  one  of  the  bats  which  had  done  terrible 
execution  on  the  tutor's  windows  had  also  played  havoc 
on  his  table,  breaking  a  bottle  of  ink,  and  deluging  some 
half-dozen  of  the  tutor's  books ;  "  and  do  you  know," 
said  Johns,"  the  poor  man  who  has  made  such  a  loss  is 
saving  up  all  his  pay  here  for  a  mother  and  two  or  three 
fatherless  children  ?  " 

"  The  Deuce  he  is  ! "  said  Maverick,  and  his  hand 
went  to  his  pocket,  which  was  always  pretty  full.  "  I 
say,  Johns,  don't  peach  on  me,  but  I  think  I  must  have 
thrown  that  bat  (which  Johns  knew  to  be  hardly  possi 
ble,  for  he  had  only  come  up  at  the  end  of  the  row), 


AN  ACCOMPLISHED   SINNER.  39 

and  I  want  you  to  get  this  money  to  him,  to  make  those 
books  good  again.  Will  you  do  it,  old  fellow  ?  " 

This  was  the  sort  of  character  to  win  upon  the  quiet 
son  of  the  Major.  "If  he  were  only  more  earnest,"  he 
used  to  say,  —  "if  he  could  give  up  his  trifling,  —  if  he 
would  only  buckle  down  to  serious  study,  as  some  of  us 
do,  what  great  things  he  might  accomplish  !  " 

Maverick  was  altogether  his  old  self  this  night  at  the 
parsonage.  Rachel  listened  admiringly,  as  he  told  of  his 
travel  and  of  his  foreign  experiences.  He  was  the  sou  of 
a  merchant  of  an  Eastern  seaport  who  had  been  long  en 
gaged  in  the  Mediterranean  trade,  with  a  branch  house 
at  Marseilles  ;  and  thither  Frank  had  gone  two  or  three 
years  after  leaving  college,  to  fill  some  subordinate  post, 
and  finally  to  work  his  way  into  a  partnership,  which  he 
now  held.  Of  course  he  had  not  lived  there  those  seven 
or  eight  years  last  past  without  his  visit  to  Paris ;  and 
his  easy,  careless  way  of  describing  what  he  had  seen 
there  in  Napoleon's  day  —  the  fetes,  the  processions,  the 
display  —  was  a  kind  of  talk  not  often  heard  in  a  New 
England  village,  and  which  took  a  strong  hold  upon  the 
imagination  of  Eachel. 

"  And  to  think,"  says  the  parson,  "that  such  a  people 
are  wholly  infidel !  " 

"  Well,  well,  I  don't  know,  "  says  Maverick  ;  "  I  think 
I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  faith  in  the  Popish  churches." 

"  Faith  in  images  ;  faith  in  the  Virgin  ;  faith  in  mum 
mery,"  says  Johns,  with  a  sigh.  " '  Tis  always  the  scar 
let  woman  of  Babylon  !  " 

"I  know,"  says  Maverick,  smiling,  "these  things  are 


4o  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

not  much  to  your  taste  ;  but  we  have  our  Protestant 
chapels,  too." 

"Not  much  better,  I  fear,"  says  Johns.  "They  are 
sadly  impregnated  with  the  Genevese  Socinianism. " 

This  was  about  the  time  that  the  orthodox  Louis 
Empaytaz  was  suffering  the  rebuke  of  the  Swiss  church 
authorities  for  his  "  Considerations  upon  the  Divinity  of 
Jesus  Christ."  Aside  from  this,  all  the  parson's  notions 
of  French  religion  and  of  French  philosophy  were  of  the 
most  aggravated  degree  of  bitterness.  All  Frenchmen 
he  had  learned  to  look  upon  as  the  children  of  Satan, 
and  their  language  as  the  language  of  hell.  With  these 
sentiments  very  sincerely  entertained,  he  regarded  his 
poor  friend  as  one  living  at  the  very  door-posts  of  Pan 
demonium.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  easy  refinement 
of  manner,  in  such  contrast  with  the  ceremonious  stiff 
ness  of  the  New  England  customs  of  speech,  was  but 
the  sliming  over  of  the  Serpent's  tongue,  preparatory  to 
a  dreadful  swallowing  of  soul  and  body  ;  and  the  care 
less  grace  of  talk,  which  so  charmed  the  innocent 
Rachel,  appeared  to  the  exacting  Puritan  a  token  of  the 
enslavement  of  his  old  friend  to  sense  and  the  guile  of 
this  world. 

Nine  o'clock  was  the  time  for  evening  prayers  at  the 
parsonage,  which  under  no  circumstances  were  ever 
omitted  ;  and  as  the  little  clock  in  the  dining-room 
chimed  the  hour,  Mr.  Johns  rose  to  lead  the  way  from 
his  study,  where  they  had  passed  the  evening. 

"It's  our  hour  for  family  prayer,"  says  Johns  ;  "will 
you  come  with  us  ?  " 


AN  ACCOMPLISHED  SINNER.  41 

"  Most  certainly,"  says  Maverick,  rising.  "  I  should  be 
sorry  not  to  have  this  little  scene  of  New  England  life 
to  take  back  with  me  ;  it  will  recall  home  pleasantly." 

The  servants  were  summoned,  and  the  parson  read 
in  his  wonted  way  a  chapter,  —  not  selected,  but  desig 
nated  by  the  old  book-mark,  which  was  earned  forward 
from  day  to  day  throughout  the  sacred  volume.  In  his 
prayer  the  parson  asked  specially  for  Divine  Grace  to 
overshadow  all  those  journeying  from  their  homes,  — 
to  protect  them,  —  to  keep  alive  in  their  hearts  the 
teachings  of  their  youth,  —  to  shield  them  from  the  in 
sidious  influences  of  sin  and  of  the  world. 

Shortly  after  prayers  Rachel  retired  for  the  night. 
The  parson  and  his  old  friend  talked  for  an  hour  or 
more  in  the  study,  but  always  as  men  whose  thoughts 
were  unlike  :  Maverick  filled  and  exuberant  with  the 
prospects  of  this  life  ;  and  the  parson,  by  a  settled  pur 
pose,  which  seemed  like  instinct,  making  all  his  obser 
vations  bear  upon  futurity. 

"The  poor  man  has  grown  very  narrow,"  thought 
Maverick. 

And  yet  Johns  entered  with  friendly  interest  into  the 
schemes  of  his  companion. 

"  So  you  count  upon  spending  your  life  there  ?  "  said 
the  parson. 

"It  is  quite  probable  "  said  Maverick.  "  I  am  doing 
exceedingly  well ;  the  climate,  bating  some  harsh  winds 
in  winter,  is  enjoyable.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

"It's  a  question  to  put  to  your  conscience,"  says 
Johns,  "not  to  me.  A  man  can  but  do  his  duty,  as 


42  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

well  there  as  here  perhaps.  Do  you  mean  to  marry  in 
France,  Maverick  ?  " 

A  shade  passed  over  the  face  of  his  friend  ;  but  re 
covering  himself,  with  a  little  musical  laugh,  he  said,  — 

"I  really  can't  say  :  there  are  very  charming  women 
there,  Johns." 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  uttered  the  parson,  dryly. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Maverick, — "you  will  excuse 
me,  — but  you  will  be  having  a  family  by  and  by,"  —  at 
which  the  parson  fairly  blushed,  —  "you  must  let  me 
send  over  some  little  gift  for  your  first  boy  ;  it  sha'n't 
be  one  that  will  harm  him,  though  it  comes  from  our 
heathen  side  of  the  world." 

"  There's  a  gift  you  might  bestow,  Maverick,  that  I 
should  value  beyond  price." 

"Pray  what  is  it?" 

"  Live  such  a  life,  my  friend,  that  I  could  say  to  any 
boy  of  mine,  '  Follow  the  example  of  that  man. ' " 

"  Ah,"  said  Maverick,  with  his  easy,  infectious  laugh, 
"  that's  more  than  I  can  promise.  To  tell  the  truth, 
Johns,  I  don't  believe  I  could  by  any  possibility  fall  into 
the  prim,  stiff  ways  which  make  a  man  commendable 
hereabout.  Even  if  I  were  religiously  disposed,  or 
should  ever  think  of  adopting  your  profession,  I  fancy 
I  should  take  to  the  gown  and  liturgy,  as  giving  a  little 
freer  movement  to  my  taste.  You  don't  like  to  think 
of  that,  I'll  wager." 

"  You  might  do  worse  things,"  said  the  parson,  sadly. 

"I  know  I  might,"  said  Maverick,  thoughtfully  ;  "I 
greatly  fefir  I  shall.  Yet  it's  not  altogether  a  bad  life 


AN  ACCOMPLISHED  SINNER.  43 

I'm  looking  forward  to,  Johns  ;  we'll  say  ten  or  fifteen 
more  years  of  business  on  the  other  side  ;  marrying 
sometime  in  the  interval,  —  certainly  not  until  I  have  a 
good  revenue  ;  then,  possibly,  I  may  come  over  among 
you  again,  establish  a  pretty  home  in  the  neighborhood 
of  one  of  your  towns  ;  look  after  a  girl  and  boy  or  two, 
who  may  have  come  into  the  family ;  get  the  title  of 
Squire  ;  give  fairly  to  the  missionary  societies  ;  take  my 
place  in  a  good  big  family-pew  ;  dabble  in  politics,  per 
haps,  so  that  people  shall  dub  me  '  Honorable  ; '  isn't 
that  a  fair  show,  Johns  ?  " 

There  was  a  thief  in  the  candle,  which  the  parson  re 
moved  with  the  snuffers. 

"As  for  yourself,"  continued  Maverick,  "they'll  give 
you  the  title  of  Doctor  after  a  few  years !  "  —  The  par 
son  raised  his  hand,  as  if  to  put  away  the  thought. —  "I 
know,"  continued  his  friend,  "you  don't  seek  worldly 
honors  :  but  they  will  drift  upon  you  ;  they'll  all  love 
you  hereabout,  in  spite  of  your  seriousness  (the  parson 
smiled) ;  you'll  have  your  house  full  of  children ;  you'll 
be  putting  a  wing  here  and  a  wing  there  ;  and  when  I 
come  back,  twenty  years  hence,  if  I  live,  I  shall  find 
you  comfortably  gray,  and  your  pretty  wife  in  specta 
cles,  knitting  mittens  for  the  youngest  boy,  and  the  old 
est  at  college,  and  your  girls  grown  into  tall  village 
belles; — but,  Johns,  don't,  I  beg,  be  too  strict  with 
them  ;  you  can't  make  a  merry  young  creature  the  bet 
ter  by  insisting  upon  seriousness ;  you  can't  crowd 
goodness  into  a  body  by  pounding  upon  it.  What  are 
you  thinking  of,  Johns  ?  " 


44  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

The  parson  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  a  cer 
tain  figure  in  the  green  and  red  Scotch  carpet. 

"Thinking,  Maverick,  that  in  twenty  years'  time,  if 
alive,  we  may  be  less  fit  for  heaven  than  we  are  to-day." 

There  was  a  pitying  kindliness  in  the  tone  of  the 
minister,  as  he  said  this,  which  touched  Maverick. 

"  There's  no  doubt  on  your  score,  Johns,  God  bless 
you  !  But  we  must  paddle  our  own  boats  ;  I  dare  say 
you'll  come  out  a  long  way  before  me  ;  you  always  did, 
you  know.  Every  man  to  his  path." 

"  There's  but  one"  said  Johns,  solemnly,  "  that  lead- 
eth  to  eternal  rest." 

With  these  words  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Next  morning,  before  the  minister  was  astir,  Maver 
ick  was  strolling  about  the  garden  and  the  village  street, 
and  at  breakfast  appeared  with  a  little  bunch  of  violets 
he  had  gathered  from  Eachel's  flower-patch,  and  laid 
them  by  her  plate.  (It  was  a  graceful  attention,  that 
not  even  the  clergyman  had  ever  paid  to  her.) 

At  noon  Maverick  left  upon  the  old  swaying  stage 
coach,  —  looking  out,  as  he  passed,  upon  the  parsonage, 
with  its  quaintly  panelled  door,  and  its  diamond  lights, 
of  which  he  long  kept  the  image  in  his  mind. 

"I  think  Mr.  Frank  Maverick  is  a  most  charming 
man,"  said  the  pretty  Mrs.  Johns  to  her  husband. 

"  He  is,  Rachel,  and  generous  and  open-hearted,  — • 
and  yet,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  I  fear,  a  miserable  sin 
ner." 

"But,  Benjamin,  my  dear,  we  are  all  sinners." 

«  All,  —  all,  Rachel,  God  help  us !  " 


REUBEN.  45 

IX. 

Reuben. 

IN  December  of  the  year  1820  came  about  a  certain 
event  of  which  hint  has  been  already  given  by  the 
party  chiefly  concerned  ;  and  Mrs.  Johns  presented  her 
husband  with  a  fine  boy,  who  was  in  due  time  chris 
tened  —  Eeuben. 

Mrs.  Handby  was  present  at  this  eventful  period,  oc 
cupying  the  guest-chamber,  and  delighting  in  all  the 
little  adornments  that  had  been  prepared  by  the  loving 
hands  of  her  daughter;  and  upon  the  following  Sab 
bath,  Mr.  Johns,  for  the  first  time  since  his  entrance 
upon  the  pastoral  duties  of  Ashfield,  ventured  to  repeat 
an  old  sermon.  Dame  Tourtelot  had  been  present  on 
the  momentous  occasion,  with  such  a  tempest  of  sug 
gestions  in  regard  to  the  wrappings  and  feeding  of  the 
new-comer,  that  the  poor  mother  had  quietly  begged 
the  good  clergyman  to  decoy  her,  on  her  next  visit,  into 
his  study.  This  he  did,  and  succeeded  in  fastening  her 
with  a  discussion  upon  the  import  of  the  word  baptize, 
in  which  he  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  carried  by  storm, 
if  he  had  not  retreated  under  cover  of  his  Greek 
Lexicon. 

Mrs.  Elderkin  had  been  zealous  in  neighborly  offices, 
and  had  brought,  in  addition  to  a  great  basket  of  needed 
appliances,  a  silver  porringer,  which,  with  wonderful 


46  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

foresight,  had  been  ordered  from  a  Hartford  jeweller 
in  advance.  The  out-of-door  man,  Larkin,  took  a  well- 
meaning  pride  in  this  accession  to  the  family,  —  walk 
ing  up  and  down  the  street  with  a  broad  grin  upon  his 
face.  He  also  became  the  bearer,  in  behalf  of  the  Tew 
partners,  of  a  certain  artful  contrivance  of  tinware  for 
the  speedy  stewing  of  pap,  which,  considering  that  the 
donors  were  childless  people,  was  esteemed  a  very  great 
mark  of  respect  for  the  minister. 

Would  it  be  strange,  if  the  father  felt  a  new  ambition 
stirring  in  him,  as  he  listened  from  his  study  to  that  cry 
of  a  child  in  the  house  ?  He  does  feel  it,  and  struggles 
against  it.  Shall  these  human  ties  supplant  the  spirit 
ual  ones  by  which  we  are  all  coheirs  of  eternal  death  or 
of  eternal  life  ? 

For  all  this,  however,  there  is  many  a  walk  which 
would  have  been  taken  of  old  under  the  orchard  trees 
now  transferred  to  the  chamber,  where  he  paces  back 
and  forth  with  the  babe  in  his  arms,  soothing  its  out 
cry,  as  he  thinks  out  his  discourse  for  the  following 
Sabbath. 

In  due  time  Mrs.  Handby  returns  to  her  home.  The 
little  child  pushes  through  its  first  month  of  venture 
some  encounter  with  the  rough  world  it  has  entered 
upon  bravely  ;  and  the  household  is  restored  to  its  uni 
form  placidity.  The  affairs  of  the  parish  follow  their 
accustomed  course.  From  time  to  time  there  are  meet 
ings  of  the  "  Consociation,"  or  other  ministerial  assem 
blages,  in  the  town,  when  the  parsonage  is  overflowing, 
and  Rachel,  with  a  simple  grace,  is  compelled  to  do  the 


REUBEN.  47 

honors  to  a  corps  of  the  Congregational  brotherhood. 
As  for  the  parson,  he  was  like  a  child  in  all  household 
matters.  Over  and  over  he  would  invite  his  brethren 
flocking  in  from  the  neighboring  villages  to  pass  the 
night  with  him,  when  Rachel  would  decoy  him  into  a 
corner,  and  declare,  with  a  most  pitiable  look  of  dis 
tress,  that  not  a  bed  was  unoccupied  in  the  house. 
Whereupon  the  goodman  would  quietly  take  his  hat, 
and  trudge  away  to  Squire  Elderkin's,  or,  on  rarer  oc 
casions  to  Deacon  Tourtelot's,  and  ask  the  favor  of 
lodging  with  them  one  of  his  clerical  brethren. 

At  other  times,  before  some  such  occasion  of  clerical 
entertainment,  the  little  housewife,  supported  by  Esther 
with  broom  and  a  great  array  of  mops,  would  wait  upon 
the  parson  in  his  study  and  order  him  away  to  his  walk 
in  the  orchard,  —  an  order  which  the  poor  man  never 
ventured  to  resist ;  but,  taking  perhaps  a  pocket  vol 
ume  of  Doddridge,  or  of  Cowper,  —  the  only  poet  he 
habitually  read,  —  he  would  sally  out  with  hat  and 
cane,  —  this  latter  a  gift  of  an  admiring  parishioner, 
which  it  pleased  Rachel  he  should  use,  and  which  she 
always  brought  to  him  at  such  times,  with  a  winning, 
mischievous  look  of  half-entreaty  and  half-command  that 
it  was  not  in  his  heart  to  resist,  and  which  on  rare  oc 
casions  (that  were  subject  of  self -accusation  afterward) 
provoked  him  to  an  answering  kiss.  At  which  Rachel :  — 

"Now  go  and  leave  us,  please  ;  there's  a  good  man! 
And  mind  "  (shaking  her  forefinger  at  him),  "  dinner  at 
half  past  twelve  ;  Larkin  will  blow  the  shell" 

The  parson,  as  he  paced  back  and  forth  under  the 


48  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

apple-trees,  out  of  sight,  and  feeling  the  need  of  more 
vigorous  exercise  than  his  usual  meditative  gait  af 
forded,  would  on  occasions  brandish  his  cane  and  as 
sume  a  military  air  and  stride  (he  remembered  the 
Major's  only  too  well),  getting  in  a  glow  with  the  un 
usual  movement,  and  in  the  heat  of  it  thanking  God 
for  all  the  blessings  that  had  befallen  him  :  a  pleasant 
home ;  a  loving  wife  ;  a  little  boy  to  bear  the  name  in 
which,  with  all  his  spiritual  tendencies,  he  yet  took  a 
very  human  pride  ;  health,  —  and  he  whisked  his  cane 
as  vigorously  as  ever  the  Major  had  done  his  cumbrous 
sword,  —  the  world's  comforts  ;  a  congregation  that  met 
him  kindly,  that  listened  kindly.  Was  he  not  leading 
them  in  the  path  of  salvation,  and  rejoicing  in  the 
leadership  ? 

And  then,  to  himself,  —  "  Be  careful,  careful,  Benja 
min  Johns,  that  you  take  not  too  great  a  pride  in  this 
work  and  home  of  yours.  You  are  but  an  instrument  in 
greater  hands ;  He  doeth  with  you  what  seemeth  Him 
best." 

As  the  boy  Keuben  grows,  and  gains  a  firmer  footing, 
he  sometimes  totters  beside  the  clergyman  in  these  or 
chard  walks,  clinging  blindly  to  his  hand,  and  lifting  his 
uncertain  feet  with  great  effort  over  the  interrupting 
tufts  of  grass,  unheeded  by  the  minister,  who  is  ponder 
ing  some  late  editorial  of  the  "Boston  Recorder."  But 
far  oftener  the  boy  is  with  the  mother,  burying  his  face 
in  that  dear  lap  of  hers,  —  lifting  the  wet  face  to  have 
tears  kissed  away  and  forgotten.  And  as  he  thrives  and 
takes  the  strength  of  three  or  four  years,  he  walks  be- 


REUBEN.  49 

side  her  under  the  trees  of  the  Tillage  street,  clad  in 
such  humble  finery  as  the  Handby  grandparents  m;;y 
have  bestowed  ;  and  he  happens  oftenest,  on  these  strolls 
with  Rachel,  into  the  hospitable  home  of  the  Elderkins, 
where  there  are  little  ones  to  romp  with  the  boy.  Most 
noticeable  of  all,  just  now,  one  Philip  Elderkin  (of  whom 
more  will  have  to  be  said  as  this  story  progresses),  only 
a  year  the  senior  of  Reuben,  but  of  far  stouter  frame, 
who  looks  admiringly  on  the  minister's  child,  and  as  he 
grows  warm  in  play  frights  him  with  some  show  of 
threat,  which  makes  the  little  Reuben  run  for  cover  to 
the  arms  of  Rachel. 

Often,  too,  in  the  square-topped  chaise,  the  child  is 
seated  on  a  little  stool  between  the  parson  and  his  wife, 
as  they  drive  away  upon  their  visits  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  parish,  — -  puzzling  them  with  those  strange  questions 
which  come  from  a  boy  just  exploring  his  way  into  the 
world  of  talk. 

"  Benjamin,"  says  Rachel,  as  they  were  nearing  home 
upon  one  of  these  drives,  "  Reuben  is  quite  a  large  boy 
now,  you  know ;  have  you  ever  written  to  your  friend, 
Mr.  Maverick  ?  You  remember  he  promised  a  gift  for 
him." 

"Never,"  said  the  minister,  whose  goodness  rarely 
took  the  shape  of  letter-writing,  —  least  of  all  where  the 
task  would  seem  to  remind  of  a  promised  favor. 

"  You've  not  forgotten  it  ?  You've  not  forgotten  Mr. 
Maverick  ?  " 

"Not  forgotten,  Rachel, — not  forgotten  to  pray  for 
him." 

4 


50  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

Ci  I  would  write,  Benjamin  ;  it  might  be  something  that 
would  be  of  service  to  Keuben.  Please  don't  forget  it, 
Benjamin." 

And  the  minister  promised. 


X. 

A  Cloud. 

IN  the  autumn  of  1824,  —  the  minister  of  Ashfield  be 
ing  still  in  good  favor  with  nearly  all  his  parishion 
ers,  and  his  wife  Rachel  being  still  greatly  beloved,  —  a 
rumor  ran  through  the  town,  one  day,  that  there  was* 
serious  illness  at  the  parsonage,  the  Doctor's  horse  and 
saddle-bags  being  observed  in  "waiting  at  the  front  gate 
for  two  hours  together.  Following  close  upon  this,  the 
Tew  partners  reported  —  having  received  undoubted  in 
formation  from  Larkin,  who  still  kept  in  his  old  service 
—  that  a  daughter  was  born  to  the  minister,  but  so  fee 
ble  that  there  were  grave  doubts  if  the  young  Rachel 
could  survive.  The  report  was  well  founded  ;  and  after 
three  or  four  days  of  desperate  struggle  with  life,  the 
poor  child  dropped  away.  Thus  death  came  into  the 
parsonage  with  so  faint  and  shadowy  a  tread,  it  hardly 
startled  one.  The  babe  had  been  christened  in  the 
midst  of  its  short  struggle,  and  in  this  the  father  found 
such  comfort  as  he  could ;  yet  reckoning  the  poor,  flut 
tering  little  soul  as  a  sinner  in  Adam,  through  whom  all 
men  fell,  he  confided  it  with  a  great  sigh  to  God. 


UK 

5' 

It  would  have  been  well,  if  his  grief  had  rested  there. 
But  two  days  thereafter  there  was  a  rumor  on  the  village 
street,  —  flying  like  the  wind,  as  such  rumors  do,  from 
house  to  house,  —  "The  minister's  wife  is  dead  !  " 

"  I  want  to  know  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tew,  lifting  herself  from 
her  task  of  assorting  the  mail,  and  removing  her  specta 
cles  in  nervous  haste.  "  Do  tell !  It  a'n't  possible  ! 
Miss  Johns  dead  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Larkin,  "as  true  as  I  live,  she's  dead;" 
and  his  voice  broke  as  he  said  it, — the  kind  little 
woman  had  so  won  upon  him. 

Squire  Elderkiu,  like  a  good  Christian,  came  hurrying 
to  the  parsonage  to  know  what  this  strange  report  could 
mean.  The  study  was  unoccupied.  With  the  familiar 
ity  of  an  old  friend  he  made  his  way  up  the  cramped 
stairs.  The  chamber-door  was  flung  wide  open  ;  there 
was  no  reason  why  the  whole  parish  might  not  come  in. 
The  nurse,  sobbing  in  a  corner,  was  swaying  back  and 
forth,  her  hands  folded  across  her  lap.  Reuben,  cling 
ing  to  the  coverlet,  was  feeling  his  way  along  the  bed,  if 
by  chance  his  mother's  hand  might  catch  hold  upon  his  ; 
and  the  minister  standing  with  a  chair  before  him,  his 
eyes  turned  to  heaven  (the  same  calm  attitude  which  he 
took  at  his  evening  prayer-meeting),  was  entreating  God 
to  "be  over  his  house,  to  strengthen  him,  to  pour  down 
his  Spirit  on  him,  to  bind  up  the  bruised  hearts,  —  to 
spare,  —  spare " 

Even  the  stout  Squire  Elderkin  withdraws  outside  the 
door,  that  he  may  the  better  conceal  his  emotion.  . 

The  death  happened  on  a  Friday.     The  Squire,  after 


52  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

a  few  faltering  expressions  of  sympathy,  asked  regarding 
the  burial.     "  Should  it  not  be  on  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Not  on  Sunday,"  said  Mr.  Johns  ;  "  God  help  me, 
Squire, —  but  this  is  not  a  work  of  necessity  or  mercy. 
Let  it  be  on  Monday." 

"  On  Monday,  then, "  said  Elderkin, —  "  and  let  me 
take  the  arrangement  of  it  all  off  your  thought ;  and  we 
will  provide  some  one  to  preach  for  you  on  the  Sabbath." 

"  No,  Mr.  Elderkin,  no  ;  I  am  always  myself  in  the 
pulpit.  I  shall  find  courage  there." 

And  he  did.  A  stranger  would  not  have  suspected 
that  the  preacher's  wife  lay  dead  at  home  ;  the  same 
unction  and  earnestness  that  had  always  characterized 
him ;  the  same  unyielding  rigidity  of  doctrine  :  "Except 
ye  repent,  ye  shall  all  likewise  perish." 
.  Once  only  —  it  was  in  the  reading  of  the  last  hymn  in 
the  afternoon  service  —  his  voice  broke,  and  he  sat  down 
half  through.  But  as  the  song  rose  under  the  old  roof 
of  the  meeting-house,  his  courage  rose  with  it.  He  seem 
ed  ashamed  of  the  transitory  weakness.  What  light  had 
he  to  bring  private  griefs  to  such  a  place  ?  What  right  had 
the  leader  to  faint,  when  the  army  were  pressing  forward 
to  the  triumph  God  had  promised  to  the  faithful?  So 
it  was  in  a  kind  of  ecstacy  that  he  rose,  and  joined  with 
a  firm,  loud  voice  in  the  final  doxology. 

One  or  two  of  the  good  old  ladies,  with  a  sad  miscon 
ception  of  the  force  that  was  in  him,  and  of  the  divine 
aid  which  seemed  vouchsafed  to  him  during  the  sendee, 
came  to  him,  as  he  passed  out,  to  give  him  greeting  and  a 
word  of  condolence.  For  that  time  only  he  passed  them. 


A    CLOUD.  53 

by,  as  if  they  had  been  wooden  images.  His  spirit  had 
been  strained  to  its  uttermost,  and  would  bear  no  more. 
He  made  his  way  home  with  an  ungainly,  swift  gait,  — 
home  to  the  dear  bedside,  —  down  upon  his  knees,  — 
struggling  with  his  weakness,  —  praying. 

At  the  tea-hour  Esther  knocked  ;  but  in  vain.  An 
hour  after,  his  boy  came,  —  came  at  the  old  woman's 
suggestion  (who  had  now  the  care  of  him),  and  knelt  by 
his  side. 

"Reuben,  — my  boy  !  " 

"She's  in  heaven,  isn't  she,  father?" 

"God  only  knows,  my  son.  He  hath  mercy  on  whom 
He  will  have  mercy." 

Small  as  he  was,  the  boy  flushed  at  this  : — 

"  I  think  it 's  a  bad  God,  if  she  isn't  in  heaven." 

"  Xay,  Reuben,  little  one,  blaspheme  not :  His  ways 
are  not  as  our  ways.  Kiss  her  now,  and  we  will  sit  down 
to  our  supper." 

And  so  they  passed  out  together  to  their  lonely  repast. 
It  had  been  a  cheerful  meal  in  days  gone,  this  Sunday's 
supper.  For  the  dinner,  owing  to  the  scruples  of  the 
parson,  was  but  a  cold  lunch  always  ;  and  in  the  excited 
state  in  which  the  preacher  found  himself  between  ser 
vices,  there  was  little  of  speech ;  even  Reuben's  prattle, 
if  he  ventured  upon  it,  caught  a  quick  "Hist !  "  from  the 
mamma.  But  with  the  return  of  Esther  from  the  after 
noon  Bible-class,  there  was  a  big  fire  lighted  in  the 
kitchen,  and  some  warm  dishes  served,  such  as  diffused 
an  appetizing  odor  through  the  house.  The  clergyman, 
too,  wore  an  air  of  relief,  having  preached  his  two  ser- 


54  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

mons,  and  showing  a  capital  appetite,  like  most  men  who 
have  acquitted  themselves  of  a  fatiguing  duty.  Besides 
which,  the  parson  guarded  that  old  New  England  cus 
tom  of  beginning  his  Sabbath  at  sundown  on  Saturday, 
—  so  that,  by  the  time  the  supper  of  Sunday  was  fairly 
over,  Eeuben  could  be  counting  it  no  sin,  if  he  should 
steal  a  run  into  the  orchard.  Nay,  it  is  quite  probable 
that  the  poor  little  woman  who  was  dead  had  always 
welcomed  cheerily  the  opened  door  of  Sunday  evening, 
and  the  relaxing  gravity,  as  night  fell,  of  her  husband's 
starched  look. 

What  wonder,  if  she  had  loved,  even  as  much  as  the 
congregational  singing,  the  music  of  the  birds  at  the 
dusk  of  a  summer's  day  ?  It  is  certain  that  the  poor 
woman  had  enjoyed  immensely  those  Sabbath-evening 
strolls  through  the  garden  and  orchard,  hand  in  hand 
with  Keuben  and  the  minister,  —  with  such  keen  and  ex 
hilarating  sense  of  God's  goodness,  of  trust  in  Him,  of 
hope,  as  was  not  invariably  wakened  by  the  sermons  of 
her  Benjamin. 

On  the  evening  of  which  we  speak,  the  father  and  son 
walked  down  the  orchard  alone.  The  birds  sang  their 
merriest  as  day  closed  in  ;  and  as  they  turned  upon  their 
walk,  and  the  good  man  saw  through  the  vista  of  garden 
and  orchard  a  bright  light  flitting  across  an  upper  win 
dow  of  his  house,  the  mad  hope  flashed  upon  him  for  an 
instant  (such  baseless  fancies  will  sometimes  possess  the 
calmest  minds)  that  she  had  waked,  —  his  Rachel,  — 
and  was  there  to  meet  him.  The  next  moment  the 
Mght  and  hope  were  gone.  His  fingers  gave  such  a  con- 


PARISH  SYMPATHIES.  55 

vulsive  grip  upon  the  hand  of  his  little  boy  that  Reuben 
cried  out  with  pain,  "  Papa,  papa,  you  hurt  me  !  " 
The  parson  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 


XL 

Parish  Sympathies. 

THEEE  were  scores  of  people  in  Ashfield  who  would 
have  been  delighted  to  speak  consolation  to  the  be 
reaved  clergyman  ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  ap 
proached  easily  with  the  ordinary  phrases  of  sympathy. 
He  bore  himself  too  sternly  under  his  grief.  What,  in 
deed,  can  be  said  in  the  face  of  affliction,  where  the 
manner  of  the  sufferer  seems  to  say,  "God  has  done  it, 
and  God  does  all  things  weU  ?  " 

Yet  there  are  those  who  delight  in  breaking  in  upon 
the  serene  dignity  which  this  condition  of  mind  implies 
with  a  noisy  proffer  of  consolation,  and  an  aggravating 
rehearsal  of  the  occasion  for  it ;  as  if  such  comforters 
entertained  a  certain  jealousy  of  the  serenity  they  do  not 
comprehend,  and  were  determined  to  test  its  sufficiency. 
Dame  Tourtelot  was  eminently  such  a  person. 

"  It 's  a  dreadful  blow  to  ye,  Mr.  Johns,"  said  she  ;  "  I 
know  it  is.  Almiry  is  a'most  as  much  took  down  by  it 
as  you  are.  '  She  was  such  a  lovely  woman,'  she  says  ; 
and  the  poor,  dear  little  boy,  —  won't  you  let  him  come 
and  pass  a  day  or  two  with  us  ?  Almiry  is  very  fond  of 
children." 


56  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"Later,  later,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  parson.  "I 
can't  spare  the  boy  now  ;  the  house  is  too  empty." 

"O  Mr.  Johns,  — the  poor  lonely  thing  !"  (And  she 
says  this,  with  her  hands  in  black  mits,  clasped  to 
gether.)  "  It's  a  bitter  blow  !  As  I  was  a-sayin'  to  the 
Deacon,  '  Such  a  lovely  young  woman,  and  such  a  good 
comfortable  home,  and  she,  poor  thing,  enjoyin'  it  so 
much  ! '  I  do  hope  you  '11  bear  up  under  it,  Mr.  Johns." 

"By  God's  help,  I  will,  my  good  woman." 

Dame  Tourtelot  was  disappointed  to  find  the  parson 
wincing  so  little  as  he  did  under  her  stimulative  sympa 
thy.  On  returning  home,  she  opened  her  views  to  the 
Deacon  in  this  style  :  — 

"  Tourtelot,  the  parson  is  not  so  much  broke  down  by 
this  as  we've  been  thinkin' ;  he  was  as  cool,  when  I  spoke 
to  him  to-day,  as  any  man  I  ever  see  in  my  life.  The 
truth  is,  she  was  a  flighty  young  person,  noways  equal 
to  the  parson.  I  've  been  a-suspectin'  it,  this  long  while  ; 
she  never,  in  my  opinion,  took  a  real  hard  hold  upon 
him.  But,  Tourtelot,  you  should  go  and  see  Mr.  Johns  ; 
and  I  hope  you'll  talk  consolingly  and  Scripterally  to 
him.  It 's  your  duty." 

And  hereupon  she  shifted  the  needles  in  her  knitting, 
and,  smoothing  down  the  big  blue  stocking-leg  over  her 
knee,  cast  a  glance  at  the  Deacon  which  signified  com 
mand.  Long  before,  the  meek,  mild-mannered  little 
man  who  was  her  husband  had  by  her  active  and  resolute 
negotiation  been  made  a  deacon  of  the  parish,  —  for 
which  office  he  was  not  indeed  ill-fitted,  being  religiously 
disposed,  strict  in  his  observance  of  all  duties,  and  well- 


PARISH  SYMPATHIES.  57 

grounded  in  the  Larger  Catechism.  He  had,  moreover, 
certain  secular  endowments  which  were  even  more 
marked,  —  among  them,  a  wonderful  instinct  at  a  bar 
gain,  which  had  been  polished  by  Dame  Tourtelot's  su 
perior  address  to  a  wonderful  degree  of  sharpness  ;  and 
by  reason  of  this  the  less  respectful  of  the  townspeople 
were  accustomed  to  say,  "  The  Deacon  is  very  small  at 
home,  but  great  in  a  trade." 

"  Squire,"  he  would  say,  addressing  a  neighbor  on  the 
Common,  "  what  do  you  s'pose  I  paid  for  that  brindle 
ye'rlin'  o'  mine  ?  Give  us  a  guess." 

"  Waul,  Deacon,  I  guess  you  paid  about  ten  dollars." 

"  Only  eight ! "  the  Deacon  would  say,  with  a  smile 
that  was  fairly  luminous,  —  "and  a  pootty  likely  critter 
I  call  it  for  eight  dollars." 

"  Five  hogs  this  year "  (in  this  way  the  Deacon  was 
used  to  soliloquize),  —  "I  hope  to  make  'em  three  hun 
dred  apiece.  The  price  works  up  about  Christmas ; 
Deacon  Simmons  has  sold  his'n  at  five,  —  distillery- 
pork  ;  that 's  sleezy,  wastes  in  bilin' ;  folks  know  it ; 
mine,  bein'  corn-fed,  ought  to  bring  half  a  cent  more,  — 
and  say,  for  Christmas,  six  ;  that  11  give  a  gain  of  a  cent, 
—  on  five  hogs,  at  three  hundred  apiece,  will  be  fifteen 
dollars.  That  '11  pay  half  my  pew-rent,  and  leave  some- 
thin'  over  for  Almiry,  who  's  always  wantin'  fresh  rib 
bons  about  New-Year's." 

The  Deacon  cherished  a  strong  dread  of  formal  visits 
to  the  parsonage  ;  first,  because  it  involved  his  Sunday 
toilet,  in  which  he  was  never  easy,  except  at  conference 
or  in  his  pew  at  the  meeting-house  ;  and  next,  because 


$8  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

he  counted  it  necessary  on  such  occasions  to  give  a 
Scriptural  garnish  to  his  talk,  in  which  attempt  he  al 
most  always,  under  the  authoritative  look  of  the  parson, 
blundered  into  difficulty.  Yet  Tourtelot,  in  obedience 
to  his  wife's  suggestion,  and  primed  with  a  text  from 
Matthew,  undertook  the  visit  of  condolence,  —  and,  be 
ing  a  really  kind-hearted  man,  bore  himself  well  in  it. 
Over  and  over  the  good  parson  shook  his  hand  in 
thanks. 

"  It  11  all  be  right,"  says  the  Deacon.  "  '  Blessed  are 
the  mourners,'  is  the  Scripteral  language,  '  for  they  shall 
inherit  the  earth.'" 

"  No,  not  that,  Deacon,"  says  the  minister,  to  whom  a 
misquotation  was  like  a  wound  in  the  flesh  ;  "  the  last 
thing  I  want  is  to  inherit  the  earth.  'They  shall  be 
comforted,'  —  that  's  the  promise,  Deacon,  and  I  count 
on  it." 

It  was  mortifying  to  his  visitor  to  be  caught  napping 
on  so  familiar  a  text ;  the  parson  saw  it,  and  spoke  con 
solingly.  But  if  not  strong  in  texts,  the  Deacon  knew 
what  his  strong  points  were  ;  so,  before  leaving,  he  in 
vites  a  little  off-hand  discussion  of  more  familiar  topics. 

"Pootty  tight  spell  o'  weather  we've  been  havin', 
Parson." 

"Kather  cool,  certainly,"  says  the  unsuspecting  clergy 
man. 

"  Got  all  your  winter's  stock  o'  wood  in  yit  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  says  the  parson. 

"  Waal,  Mr.  Johns,  I'  ve  got  a  lot  of  pastur'-hickory  cut 
and  corded,  that  's  well  seared  over  now,  —  and  if  you  'd 


PARISH  SYMPATHIES.  59 

like  some  of  it,  I  can  let  you  have  it  very  reasonable 
indeed." 

The  sympathy  of  the  Elderkins,  if  less  formal,  was 
none  the  less  hearty.  Nay,  the  very  religion  of  the 
Squire,  which  the  parson  had  looked  upon  as  somewhat 
discursive  and  human,  —  giving  too  large  a  place  to 
good  works,  — was  decisive  and  to  the  point  in  the 
present  emergency. 

"  It 's  God's  doing,"  said  he  ;  "  we  must  take  the  cup 
He  gives  us.  For  the  best,  is  n't  it,  Parson  ?  " 

"I  do,  Squire.     Thank  God,  I  can." 

There  was  good  Mrs.  Elderkin  —  who  made  up  by 
her  devotion  to  the  special  tenets  of  the  clergyman 
many  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  Squire  —  insisted  upon 
sending  for  the  poor  boy  Reuben,  that  he  might  forget 
his  grief  in  her  kindness,  and  in  frolic  with  the  Elder- 
kins  through  that  famous  garden,  with  its  huge  hedges 
of  box,  —  such  a  garden  as  was  certainly  not  to  be 
matched  elsewhere  in  Ashfield.  The  same  good  woman, 
too,  sends  down  a  wagon-load  of  substantial  things  from 
her  larder,  for  the  present  relief  of  the  stricken  house 
hold  ;  to  wlu'ch  the  Squire  has  added  a  little  round  jug 
of  choice  Santa  Cruz  rum,  —  remembering  the  long 
watches  of  the  parson.  Those  old  people  nestled  under 
no  cover  of  liver  specifics  or  bitters.  Reform  has  made 
a  grand  march  indeed  ;  but  the  Devil,  with  his  square 
bottles  and  Scheidam  schnapps,  has  kept  a  pretty  even 
pace  with  it. 


60  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

XTL 

The  Par  sorts  Consolation. 

nnHE  boy  Reuben,  in  those  first  weeks  after  his  loss, 
-*-  wandered  about  as  if  in  a  maze,  wondering  at  the 
great  blank  that  death  had  made  ;  or,  warming  himself 
at  some  out-door  sport,  he  rushed  in  with  a  pleasant  for- 
getfulness,  —  shouting,  —  up  the  stairs,  —  to  the  accus 
tomed  door,  and  bursts  in  upon  the  cold  chamber,  so 
long  closed,  where  the  bitter  knowledge  comes  upon 
him  fresh  once  more.  Esther,  good  soul  that  she  is,  has 
heard  his  clatter  upon  the  floor,  his  bound  at  the  old 
latch,  and,  fancying  what  it  may  mean,  has  come  up  in 
time  to  soothe  him  and  bear  him  off  with  her.  The 
parson,  forging  some  sermon  for  the  next  Sabbath,  in 
the  room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  hears,  may  be,  the 
stifled  sobbing  of  the  boy,  as  the  good  Esther  half  leads 
and  half  drags  him  down,  and  opens  his  door  upon 
them. 

"  What  now,  Esther  ?     Has  Reuben  caught  a  fall  ?  " 
"  No,  sir,  no  fall ;  he's  not  harmed,  sir.     It 's  only  the 
old  room,  you  know,  sir,  and  he  quite  forgot  himself." 
"  Poor  boy !     Will  he  come  with  me,  Esther  ?  " 
"No,  Mr.  Johns.     I'll  find  something  '11  amuse  him  ; 
hey,  Ruby  ?  " 

And  the  parson  goes  back  to  his  desk,  where  he  for 
gets  himself  in  the  glow  of  that  great  work  of  his.     He 


THE  PARSON'S   CONSOLATION.  61 

has  been  taught,  as  never  before,  that  "  all  flesh  is 
grass."  He  accepts  his  loss  as  a  punishment  for  having 
thought  too  much  and  fondly  of  the  blessings  of  this  life. 
He  has  transferred  his  bed  to  a  little  chamber  which 
opens  from  his  study  in  the  rear,  and  which  is  at  the  end 
of  the  long  dining-room,  where  every  morning  and  even 
ing  the  prayers  are  said,  as  before.  The  parishioners  see  a 
light  burning  in  the  window  of  his  study  far  into  the  night. 

For  a  time  his  sermons  are  more  emotional  than  before. 

"We  ask  ourselves,"  said  he,  "my  brethren,  if  we 
shall  knowingly  meet  there  —  where  we  trust  His  grace 
may  give  us  entrance  —  those  from  whom  you  and  I 
have  parted  ;  whether  a  fond  and  joyous  welcome  shall 
greet  us,  not  alone  from  Him  whom  to  love  is  life,  but 
from  those  dear  ones  who  seem  to  our  poor  senses  to  be 
resting  under  the  sod  yonder.  Sometimes  I  believe  that 
by  God's  great  goodness,"  (and  here  he  looked,  not  at 
his  people,  but  above,  and  kept  his  eye  fixed  there)  — • 
"  I  believe  that  we  shall ;  that  His  great  love  shall  so  de 
light  in  making  complete  our  happiness,  even  by  such 
little  memorials  of  our  earthly  affections  (which  must 
seem  like  waifs  of  thistle-doWn  beside  the  great  harvest 
of  His  abounding  grace),  that  all  the  dear  faces  of  those 
written  in  the  Golden  Book  shall  beam  a  welcome,  all 
the  more  bounteous  because  reflecting  His  joy  who  has 
died  to  save." 

And  the  listeners  whispered  each  other  as  he  paused, 
"  He  thinks  of  Rachel." 

With  his  eyes  still  fixed  above,  he  goes  on, — 

"  Sometimes  I  think  thus ;  but  oftener  I  ask  myself, 


62  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

'  Of  what  value  shall  human  ties  be,  or  their  memories, 
in  His  august  presence  whom  to  look  upon  is  life  ? 
What  room  shall  there  be  for  other  affections,  what  room 
for  other  memories,  than  those  of  "  the  Lamb  that  was 
slain  "  ?  ' 

"  Does  this  sound  harshly,  my  brethren  ?  Ah,  let  us 
beware,  —  let  us  beware  how  we  entertain  any  opinions 
of  that  future  condition  of  holiness  and  of  joy  promised 
to  the  elect,  which  are  dependent  upon  the  gross  attach 
ments  of  earth.  " 

"This  man  lives  above  the  world,"  said  the  people  ; 
and  if  some  of  them  did  not  give  very  cordial  assent  to 
these  latter  views,  they  smothered  their  dissent  by  a 
lofty  expression  of  admiration.  It  is  doubtful,  indeed, 
if  they  did  not  make  a  merit  of  their  placid  intellectual 
admission  of  such  beliefs  as  most  violated  the  natural 
sensibilities  of  the  heart.  As  if  mere  intellectual  adhe 
sion  to  theological  formulas  were  to  pave  our  way  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  Infinite,  —  as  if  our  sensibilities  were 
to  be  outraged  in  the  march  to  heaven,  —  as  if  all  the 
emotional  nature  were  to  be  clipped  away  by  the  shears 
of  the  doctors,  leaving  only  the  metaphysic  ghost  of  a 
soul  to  enter  upon  the  joys  of  Paradise  ! 

Within  eight  months  after  his  loss,  Mr.  Johns  thought 
of  Rachel  only  as  a  gift  that  God  had  bestowed  to  try 
him,  and  had  taken  away  to  work  in  him  a  humiliation 
of  the  heart.  More  severely  than  ever  he  wrestled  with 
the  dogmas  of  his  chosen  divines,  harnessed  them  to  his 
purposes  as  preacher,  and  wrought  on  with  a  zeal  that 
knew  no  abatement  and  no  rest. 


PRACTICAL   SYMPATHIES.  63 

XIIL 

Practical  Sympathies. 

IN  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of  1826,  —  a  reason 
able  time  having  now  elapsed  since  the  death  of 
poor  Rachel,  —  the  gossips  of  Ashfield  began  to  discuss 
the  lonely  condition  of  their  pastor,  in  connection  with 
some  desirable  or  feasible  amendment  of  it. 

There  were  some  invidious  persons  in  the  town  who 
had  remarked  that  Miss  Almira  Tourtelot  had  brought 
quite  a  new  fervor  to  her  devotional  exercises  in  the  par 
ish  within  the  last  year,  as  well  as  a  new  set  of  ribbons 
to  her  hat ;  and  two  maiden  ladies  opposite,  of  distin 
guished  pretensions  and  long  experience  of  life,  had  ob 
served  that  the  young  Reuben,  on  his  passage  back  and 
forth  from  the  Elderkins,  had  sometimes  been  decoyed 
within  the  Tourtelot  yard,  and  presented  by  the  admir 
ing  Dame  Tourtelot  with  fresh  doughnuts. 

Dame  Tourtelot  had  crowned  with  success  all  her 
schemes  in  life,  save  one.  Almira,  her  daughter,  now 
verging  upon  her  thirty-second  year,  had  long  been  upon 
the  anxious-seat  as  regarded  matrimony  ;  and  with  a 
sentimental  turn  that  incited  much  reading  of  Cowper 
and  Montgomery  and  (if  it  must  be  told)  "  Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw,"  the  poor  girl  united  a  sickly,  in-door  look, 
and  a  peaked  countenance,  which  had  not  attracted 
wooers.  The  wonderful  executive  capacity  of  the  mother 


64  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

had  unfortunately  debarred  her  from  any  active  interest 
in  the  household  ;  and  though  the  Tourtelots  had  act 
ually  been  at  the  expense  of  providing  a  piano  for 
Almira,  (the  only  one  in  Ashfield, )  — upon  which  the 
poor  girl  thrummed,  thinking  of  "  Thaddeus,"  and,  we 
trust,  of  better  things,  — this  had  not  won  a  roseate 
hue  to  her  face,  or  quickened  in  any  perceptible  degree 
the  alacrity  of  her  admirers. 

Upon  a  certain  night  of  later  October,  after  Almira 
has  retired,  and  when  the  Tourtelots  are  seated  by  the 
little  fire,  which  the  autumn  chills  have  rendered  neces 
sary,  and  into  the  embers  of  which  the  Deacon  has  cau 
tiously  thrust  the  leg  of  one  of  the  fire-dogs,  preparatory 
to  a  modest  mug  of  flip,  (with  which,  by  his  wife's  per 
mission,  he  occasionally  indulges  himself,)  the  good  dame 
calls  out  to  her  husband,  who  is  dozing  in  his  chair,  — 

"Tourtelot  !" 

But  she  is  not  loud  enough. 

"  TOURTELOT  !  you're  asleep  !  " 

"No,"  says  the  Deacon,  rousing  himself,  —  "only 
thinkin'." 

"  What  are  you  thinkin'  of,  Tourtelot  ?" 

"Thinkin'  —  thinkin',"  says  the  Deacon,  rasped  by 
the  dame's  sharpness  into  sudden  mental  effort,  — 
"thinkin',  Huldy,  if  it  a'n't  about  time  to  butcher :  we 
butchered  last  year  nigh  on  the  twentieth." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  says  the  dame  ;  "  what  about  the  par 
son?" 

"  The  parson  ?  Oh  !  Why,  I  guess  the  parson'll  take 
a  side  and  two  hams." 


PRACTICAL   SYMPATHIES.  65 

"  Nonsense ! "  says  the  dame,  with  a  great  voice  ; 
"  you're  asleep,  Tourtelot.  Is  the  parson  a-goin'  to 
marry,  or  a'n't  he  ?  that's  what  I  want  to  know ;"  and 
she  rethreads  her  needle. 

(She  can  do  it  by  candle-light  at  fifty-five,  that 
woman  ! ) 

"  Oh, marry  ?"  replies  the  Deacon,  rousing  him 
self  more  thoroughly,  —  "  waal,  I  don't  see  no  signs, 
Huldy.  If  he  doos  mean  to,  he  's  sly  about  it ;  don't  you 
think  so,  Huldy?" 

The  dame,  who  is  intent  upon  her  sewing  again,  — 
she  is  never  without  her  work,  that  woman  !  —  does  not 
deign  a  reply. 

The  Deacon,  after  lifting  the  fire-dog,  blowing  off  the 
ashes,  and  holding  it  to  his  face  to  try  the  heat, 
says,  — 

"I  guess  Almiry  ha'n't  much  of  a  chance." 

"What's  the  use  of  your  guessin'?"  says  the  dame  ; 
"better  mind  your  flip." 

Which  the  Deacon  accordingly  does,  stirring  it  in  a 
mild  manner,  until  the  dame  breaks  out  upon  him  again 
explosively  : 

"  Tourtelot.  A  ou  men  of  the  parish  ought  to  talk  to 
the  parson  ;  it  a'n't  right  for  things  to  go  on  this  way. 
That  boy  Reuben  is  growiii'  up  wild  ;  he  wants  a  wom 
an  in  the  house  to  look  arter  him.  Besides,  a  minister 
ought  to  have  a  wife ;  it  a'n't  decent  to  have  the 
house  empty,  and  only  Esther  there.  Women  want  to 
feel  they  can  drop  in  at  the  parsonage  for  a  chat,  or  to 
take  tea.  But  who  's  to  serve  tea,  I  want  to  know  ? 
5 


66  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Who  's  to  mind  Keuben  in  meetin'?  He  broke  the 
cover  off  the  best  hymn-book  in  the  parson's  pew  last 
Sunday.  Who  's  to  prevent  him  a-breakin'  all  the  hymn- 
books  that  belong  to  the  parish  ?  You  men  ought  to 
speak  to  the  parson  ;  and,  Tourtelot,  if  the  others  won't 
do  it,  you  must." 

The  Deacon  was  fairly  awake  now.  He  pulled  at  his 
whiskers  deprecatingly.  Yet  he  clearly  foresaw  that  the 
emergency  was  one  to  be  met ;  the  manner  of  Dame 
Tourtelot  left  no  room  for  doubt  ;  and  he  was  casting 
about  for  such  Scriptural  injunctions  as  might  be  made 
available,  when  the  dame  interrupted  his  reflections  in 
more  amiable  humor,  — 

"It  a'n't  Almiry,  Samuel,  I'm  thinkin'  of,  but  Mr.  Johns 
and  the  good  o'  the  parish.  I  really  don't  know  if  Almiry 
would  fancy  the  parson  ;  the  girl  is  a  good  deal  taken 
up  with  her  pianny  and  books  ;  but  there's  the  Hap- 
goods,  opposite  ;  there's  Joanny  Meacham  " 

"You'll  never  make  that  do,  Huldy,"  said  the  Dea 
con,  stirring  his  flip  composedly  ;  "  they're  nigh  on  as 
old  as  the  parson." 

"Never  you  mind,  Tourtelot,"  said  the  dame,  sharp 
ly;  "  only  you  hint  to  the  parson  that  they're  good, 
pious  women,  all  of  'em,  and  would  make  proper  min 
isters'  wives.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  a  man 
is,  Tourtelot !  Humph  !  "  And  she  threads  her  needle 
again. 

The  Deacon  was  apt  to  keep  in  mind  his  wife's  ad 
vices,  whatever  he  might  do  with  Scripture  quotations. 
So  when  he  called  at  the  parsonage,  a  few  days  after, 


PRACTICAL  SYMPATHIES.  67 

—  ostensibly  to  learn  how  the  minister  would  like  his 
pork  cut,  —  it  happened  that  little  Reuben  came  bound 
ing  in,  and  that  the  Deacon  gave  him  a  fatherly  pat 
upon  the  shoulder. 

"  Likely  boy  you've  got  here,  Mr.  Johns,  —  likely 
boy.  But,  Parson,  don't  you  think  he  must  feel  a  kind 
o'  hankerin'  arter  somebody  to  be  motherly  to  him  ?  I 
a'most  wonder  you  don't  feel  that  way  yourself,  Mr. 
Johns." 

"  God  comforts  the  mourners,"  said  the  clergyman, 
seriously. 

"  No  doubt  on  't,  no  doubt  on  't,  Parson  ;  but  the 
Lord  sometimes  provides  comforts  ag'in  which  we  shet 
our  eyes.  You  won't  think  hard  o'  me,  Parson,  but  I've 
heerd  say  about  the  village  that  Miss  Meacham  or  one 
of  the  Miss  Hapgoods  would  make  a  pooty  good  minis 
ter's  wife." 

The  parson  is  suddenly  very  grave. 

"  Don't  repeat  such  idle  gossip,  Deacon.  I'm  mar 
ried  to  my  work.  The  Gospel  is  my  bride  now." 

"  And  a  very  good  un  it  is,  Parson.  But  don't  you 
rather  think,  naow,  that  a  godly  woman  for  helpmeet 
would  make  the  work  more  effectooal  ?  Miss  Meacham 
is  a  pattern  of  a  body  in  the  Sunday-school  I  guess 
the  women  o'  the  parish  would  rather  like  to  find  the 
doors  of  the  parsonage  openin'  for  'em  ag'in." 

"  That  is  to  be  thought  of,  certainly,"  said  the  minis 
ter,  musingly. 

"  You  won't  think  hard  o'  me,  Mr.  Johns,  for  droppin' 
a  word  about  this  matter  ?  "  says  the  Deacon,  rising  to 


68  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

leave.  "And  while  I  think  on't,  Parson,  I  see  the  sill 
under  the  no'theast  corner  o'  the  meetin'-house  has  a 
little  settle  to't.  I've  jest  been  cuttin'  a  few  sticks  o' 
good  smart  chestnut  timber  ;  and  if  the  Committee 
thinks  best,  I  could  haul  down  one  or  two  on  'em  for 
repairs.  It  won't  cost  nigh  as  much  as  pine  lumber, 
and  it's  every  bit  as  good." 

Even  Dame  Tourtelot  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
the  politic  way  of  the  Deacon,  both  as  regarded  the 
wife  and  the  prospective  bargain.  The  next  evening 
the  good  woman  invited  the  clergyman  —  begging  him 
"  not  to  forget  the  dear  little  boy  "  —  to  tea. 

This  was  by  no  means  the  first  hint  which  the  min 
ister  had  had  of  the  tendency  of  village  gossip.  The 
Tew  partners,  with  whom  he  had  fallen  upon  very  easy 
terms  of  familiarity,  —  both  by  reason  of  frequent  visits 
at  their  little  shop,  and  by  reason  of  their  steady  attend 
ance  upon  his  ministrations,  —  often  dropped  hints  of 
the  smalhiess  of  the  good  man's  grocery  account,  and 
insidious  hopes  that  it  might  be  doubled  in  size  at  some 
day  not  far  off. 

Squire  Elderkin,  too,  in  his  bluff,  hearty  way,  had 
occasionally  complimented  the  clergyman  upon  the  in 
creased  attendance  latterly  of  ladies  of  a  certain  age,  and 
had  drawn  his  attention  particularly  to  the  ardent  zeal 
of  a  buxom,  middle-aged  widow,  who  lived  upon  the 
skirts  of  the  town,  and  was  "  the  owner,"  he  said,  "  of 
as  pretty  a  piece  of  property  as  lay  in  the  county." 

"Have  you  any  knack  at  farming,  Mr.  Johns?"  con 
tinued  he,  playfully. 


PRACTICAL   SYMPATHIES.  69 

"Farming?  why?"  says  the  innocent  parson,  in  a 
maze. 

"  Because  I  am  of  opinion,  Mr.  Johns,  that  the  wid 
ow's  little  property  might  be  rented  by  you,  under  con 
ditions  of  joint  occupancy,  on  very  easy  terms." 

Such  badinage  was  so  warded  off  by  the  ponderous 
gravity  which  the  parson  habitually  wore,  that  men  like 
Elderkin  loved  occasionally  to  launch  a  quiet  joke  at 
him,  for  the  pleasure  of  watching  the  rebound. 

When,  however,  the  wide-spread  gossip  of  the  town 
had  taken  the  shape  (as  in  the  talk  of  Deacon  Tourte- 
lot)  of  an  incentive  to  duty,  the  grave  clergyman  gave 
to  it  his  undivided  and  prayerful  attention.  It  was 
over-true  that  the  boy  Reuben  was  running  wild.  No 
lad  in  Ashfield,  of  his  years,  could  match  him  in  mis 
chief.  There  was  surely  need  of  womanly  direction 
and  remonstrance.  It  was  eminently  proper,  too,  that 
the  parsonage,  so  long  closed,  should  be  opened  freely 
to  all  his  flock  ;  and  the  truth  was  so  plain,  he  won 
dered  it  could  have  escaped  him  so  long.  Duty  re 
quired  that  his  home  should  have  an  established  mis 
tress  ;  and  a  mistress  he  forthwith  determined  it  should 
have. 

Within  three  weeks  from  the  day  of  the  tea-drink 
ing  with  the  Tourtelots,  the  minister  suggested  certain 
changes  in  the  long-deserted  chamber  which  should 
bring  it  into  more  habitable  condition.  He  hinted  to 
his  man  Larkin  that  an  additional  fire  might  probably 
be  needed  in  the  house  during  the  latter  part  of  winter  ; 
and  before  January  had  gone  out,  he  had  most  agree- 


70  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ably  surprised  the  delighted  and  curious  Tew  partners 
with  a  very  large  addition  to  his  usual  orders,  —  em 
bracing  certain  condiments  in  the  way  of  spices,  dried 
fruits,  and  cordials,  which  had  for  a  long  time  been 
foreign  to  the  larder  of  the  parsonage. 

Such  indications,  duly  commented  on,  as  they  were 
most  zealously,  could  not  fail  to  excite  a  great  buzz  of 
talk  and  of  curiosity  throughout  the  town. 

"  I  knew  it,"  says  Mrs.  Tew,  authoritatively,  setting 
back  her  spectacles  from  her  postal  duties; — "these 
'ere  grave  widowers  are  allers  the  first  to  pop  off,  and 
git  married." 

"Tourtelot!"  said  the  dame,  on  a  January  night, 
when  the  evidence  had  come  in  overwhelmingly,  — 
"  Tourtelot !  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

"  D'n'  know,"  says  the  Deacon,  stirring  his  flip,  — 
"  d'n'  know.  It's  my  opinion  the  parson  has  his  sly 
humors  about  him." 

"  Do  you  think  it's  true,  Samuel  ?  " 

"Waal,  Huldy,— I  du." 

"Tourtelot!  finish  your  flip,  and  go  to  bed:  it's  past 
ten." 

And  the  Deacon  went. 


A   NEW  MISTRESS.  71 

XIV. 

A  New  Mistress. 

the  latter  end  of  the  winter  there  arrived 
at  the  parsonage  the  new  mistress,  —  in  the  per 
son  of  Miss  Eliza  Johns,  the  elder  sister  of  the  incum 
bent,  and  a  spinster  of  the  ripe  age  of  three-and-thirty. 
For  the  last  twelve  years  she  had  maintained  a  lonely, 
but  matronly,  command  of  the  old  homestead  of  the 
late  Major  Johns,  in  the  town  of  Canterbury.  She  was 
intensely  proud  of  the  memory  of  her  father,  and  of 
h is  father  before  him,  —  every  inch  a  Johns.  No  light 
cause  could  have  provoked  her  to  a  sacrifice  of  the 
name  ;  and  of  weightier  causes  she  had  been  spared 
the  trial.  The  marriage  of  her  brother  had  always 
been  more  or  less  a  source  of  mortification  to  her. 
The  Handbys,  though  excellent  plain  people,  were  of 
no  particular  distinction.  Rachel  had  a  pretty  face, 
with  which  Benjamin  had  grown  suddenly  demented. 
That  source  of  mortification  and  of  disturbed  intimacy 
was  now  buried  in  the  grave.  Benjamin  had  won  a 
reputation  for  dignity  and  ability  which  was  immensehr 
gratifying  to  her.  She  had  assured  him  of  it  again 
and  again  in  her  occasional  letters.  The  success  of 
an  Election  Sermon  he  had  preached  at  the  invitation 
of  Gov.  TTolcott  had  been  an  event  of  the  greatest 
interest  to  her,  which  she  had  expressed  in  an  epistle 


72  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

of  three  pages,  with  every  comma  in  its  place,  and  full 
of  gratulations.  Her  commas  were  always  in  place  ; 
so  were  her  stops  of  all  kinds.  This  precision  had  en 
abled  her  to  manage  the  little  property  which  had  been 
left  her  in  such  a  way  as  to  maintain  always  about  her 
establishment  an  air  of  well-ordered  thrift.  She  con 
cealed  adroitly  all  the  shifts  —  if  there  were  any  —  by 
which  she  avoided  the  reproach  of  seeming  poor. 

In  person  she  was  not  unlike  her  father,  the  Ma 
jor,  —  tall,  erect,  with  a  dignified  bearing,  and  so  trim 
a  figure,  and  so  elastic  a  step  even  at  her  years,  as 
would  have  provoked  an  inquisitive  follower  to  catch 
sight  of  the  face.  This  was  by  no  means  attractive. 
Her  features  were  thin,  her  nose  unduly  prominent ; 
and  both  eye  and  mouth,  though  well  formed,  carried 
about  them  a  kind  of  hard  positiveness  that  would  have 
challenged  respect,  perhaps,  but  no  warmer  feeling. 
Two  little  curls  were  flattened  upon  either  temple; 
and  her  necktie,  dress,  gloves,  hat,  were  always  most 
neatly  arranged,  and  ordered  with  the  same  precision 
that  governed  all  her  action.  In  the  town  of  Canter 
bury  she  was  an  institution.  Her  charities  and  all  her 
religious  observances  were  methodical,  and  never  omit 
ted.  Her  whole  life,  indeed,  was  a  discipline.  With 
out  any  great  love  for  children,  she  still  had  her  Bible- 
class  ;  and  it  was  rare  that  the  weather  or  any  other 
cause  forbade  attendance  upon  its  duties.  Nor  was 
there  one  of  the  little  ones  who  listened  to  that  clear, 
sharp,  metallic  voice  of  hers  but  stood  in  awe  of  her ; 
not  one  that  could  say  she  was  unkind  ;  not  one  who 


A   NEW  MISTRESS.  73 

had  ever  bestowed  a  childish  gift  upon  her,  —  such  little 
gifts  as  children  love  to  heap  on  those  who  have  found 
the  way  to  their  hearts. 

Sentiment  had  never  been  effusive  in  her  ;  and  it  was 
now  limited  to  quick  sparkles,  that  sometimes  flashed 
into  a  page  of  her  reading.  As  regarded  the  serious 
question  of  marriage,  implying  a  home,  position,  the  mar 
ried  dignities,  it  had  rarely  disturbed  her  ;  and  now  her 
imaginative  forecast  did  not  grapple  it  with  any  vigor  or 
longing.  If,  indeed,  it  had  been  possible  that  a  man 
of  high  standing,  character,  cultivation,  —  equal,  in 
short,  to  the  Johnses  in  every  way,  —  should  woo  her 
with  pertinacity,  she  might  have  been  disposed  to  yield 
a  dignified  assent ;  but  not  unless  he  could  be  made 
to  understand  and  adequately  appreciate  the  immense 
favor  she  was  conferring.  In  short,  the  suitor  who  could 
abide  and  admit  her  exalted  pretensions,  and  submit 
to  them,  would  most  infallibly  be  one  of  a  character 
and  temper  so  far  inferior  to  her  own  that  she  would 
scorn  him  from  the  outset.  This  dilemma,  imposed  by 
the  rigidity  of  her  smaller  dignities,  that  were  never 
mastered  or  overshadowed  either  by  her  sentiment  or 
her  passion,  not  only  involved  a  life  of  celibacy,  but 
was  a  constant  justification  of  it,  and  made  it  eminently 
easy  to  be  borne.  There  are  not  a  few  maiden  ladies 
who  are  thus  lightered  over  the  shoals  of  a  solitary 
existence  by  the  buoyancy  of  their  own  intemperate 
vanities. 

Miss  Johns  did  not  accept  the  invitation  of  her 
brother  to  undertake  the  charge  of  his  household 


74  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

without  due  consideration.  She  by  no  means  left  out 
of  view  the  contingency  of  his  possible  future  mar^ 
riage ;  but  she  trusted  largely  to  her  own  influences  in 
making  it  such  a  one,  if  inevitable,  as  should  not  be 
discreditable  to  the  family  name.  And  under  such 
conditions  she  would  retire  with  serene  contentment  to 
her  owrn  more  private  sphere  of  Canterbury,  —  or,  if 
circumstances  should  demand,  would  accept  the  posi 
tion  of  guest  in  the  house  of  her  brother.  Nor  did 
she  leave  out  of  view  her  influence  in  the  training 
of  the  boy  Keuben.  She  cherished  her  own  hopes  of 
moulding  him  to  her  will,  and  of  making  him  a  pride 
to  the  family. 

There  was  of  course  prodigious  excitement  in  the 
parsonage  upon  her  arrival.  Esther  had  done  her  best 
at  all  household  appliances,  whether  of  kitchen  or 
chamber.  The  minister  received  her  with  his  wonted 
quietude,  and  a  brotherly  kiss  of  salutation.  Reuben 
gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  and  was  thinking  dreamily 
if  he  should  ever  love  her,  while  he  felt  the  dreary 
rustle  of  her  black  silk  dress  swooping  round  as  she 
stooped  to  embrace  him.  "I  hope  Master  Reuben  is  a 
good  boy,"  said  she  ;  "  your  Aunt  Eliza  loves  all  good 
boys." 

He  had  nothing  to  say  ;  but  only  looked  back  into 
that  cold  gray  eye,  as  she  lifted  his  chin  with  her 
gloved  hand. 

"  Benjamin,  there's  a  strong  look  of  the  Handbys  ; 
but  it's  your  forehead.  He's  a  little  man,  I  hope," 
and  she  patted  him  on  the  head. 


A    NEW  MISTRESS.  75 

Still  Reuben  looked  —  wonderingly  —  at  her  shining 
silk  dress,  at  her  hat,  at  the  little  curls  on  either  temple, 
at  the  guard-chain  which  hung  from  her  neck  with  a 
glittering  watch-key  upon  it,  at  the  bright  buckle  in  her 
belt,  and  most  of  all  at  the  gray  eye  which  seemed \o 
look  on  him  from  far  away.  And  with  the  same  stare 
of  wonderment,  he  followed  her  up  and  down  through 
out  the  house. 

At  night,  Esther,  who  has  a  chamber  near  him, 
creeps  in  to  say  good-night  to  the  lad,  and  asks,  — 

"  Do  you  like  her,  Ruby,  boy  ?  Do  you  like  your 
Aunt  Eliza?" 

"  I  d'n  know,"  says  Reuben.  "  She  says  she  likes 
good  boys  ;  don't  you  like  bad  uns,  Esther  ?  " 

"But  you're  not  very  bad,"  says  Esther,  whose  or 
thodoxy  does  not  forbid  kindly  praise. 

"  Didn't  mamma  like  bad  uns,  Esther  ?  " 

"  Dear  heart !  "  and  the  good  creature  gives  the  boy 
a  great  hug  ;  it  could  not  have  been  warmer,  if  he  had 
been  her  child. 

The  household  speedily  felt  the  presence  of  the  new 
comer.  Her  precision,  her  method,  her  clear,  sharp 
voice,  —  never  raised  in  anger,  never  falling  to  tender 
ness,  —  ruled  the  establishment.  Under  all  the  cheeri- 
ness  of  the  old  management,  there  had  been  a  sad  lack 
of  any  economic  system,  by  reason  of  which  the  minis 
ter  was  constantly  overrunning  his  little  stipend,  and 
making  awkward  appeals  from  time  to  time  to  the  Par* 
ish  Committee  for  advances.  A  small  legacy  that  had 
befallen  the  late  Mrs.  Johns,  and  which  had  gone  to  the 


76  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

purchase  of  the  parsonage,  had  brought  relief  at  a  very 
perplexing  crisis  ;  but  against  all  similar  troubles  Miss 
Johns  set  her  face  most  resolutely.  There  was  a  daily 
examination  of  butchers'  and  grocers'  accounts,  that 
had  been  previously  unknown  to  the  household.  The 
kitchen  was  placed  under  strict  regimen,  into  the 
observance  of  which  the  good  Esther  slipped,  not  so 
much  from  love  of  it,  as  from  total  inability  to  cope 
with  the  magnetic  authority  of  the  new  mistress. 

"  Esther,  my  good  woman,  it  will  be  best,  I  think,  to 
have  breakfast  a  little  more  promptly,  —  at  half-past 
six,  we  will  say,  —  so  that  prayers  may  be  over  and  the 
room  free  by  eight ;  the  minister,  you  know,  must  have 
his  morning  in  his  study  undisturbed." 

"  Yes,  marm,"  says  Esther  ;  and  she  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  flying  over  the  house-top  in  her  short 
gown  as  of  questioning  the  plan. 

Again,  the  mistress  says,  — "  Larkin,  I  think  it 
would  be  well  to  take  up  those  scattered  bunches  of 
lilies,  and  place  them  upon  either  side  of  the  walk  in 
the  garden,  so  that  the  flowers  may  be  all  together." 

"  Yes,  marm,"  says  Larkin. 

And  much  as  he  had  loved  the  little  woman  now 
sleeping  in  her  grave,  who  had  scattered  flowers  with  an 
errant  fancy,  he  would  have  thought  it  preposterous  to 
object  to  an  order  so  calmly  spoken,  so  evidently  intend 
ed  for  execution. 

The  parishioners  were  not  slow  to  perceive  that  new 
order  prevailed  at  the  quiet  parsonage.  Curiosity,  no 
less  than  the  staid  proprieties  which  governed  the 


A   NEW  MISTRESS.  77 

action  of  the  chief  inhabitants,  had  brought  them  early 
into  contact  with  the  new  mistress.  She  received  all 
with  dignity  and  with  an  exactitude  of  deportment 
that  charmed  the  precise  ones  and  that  awed  the  young 
er  folks.  The  bustling  Dame  Tourtelot  had  come  among 
the  earliest,  and  her  brief  report  was,  —  "  Tourtelot, 
Miss  Johns 's  as  smart  as  a  steel  trap." 

Nor  was  the  spinster  sister  without  a  degree  of  cul 
tivation  which  commended  her  to  the  more  intellectual 
people  of  Ashfield.  She  was  a  reader  of  "Rokeby" 
and  of  Miss  Austen's  novels,  of  Josephus  and  of  Eollin's 
"Ancient  History.''  The  Misses  Hapgoods,  who  were 
the  blue-stockings  of  the  place,  were  charmed  to  have 
such  an  addition  to  the  cultivated  circle  of  the  parish.  To 
make  the  success  of  Miss  Johns  still  more  decided,  she 
brought  with  her  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  convention 
alisms  of  the  city,  by  reason  of  her  occasional  visits  to 
her  sister  Mabel,  (now  Mrs.  Brindlock,  of  Greenwich 
Street,)  which  to  many  excellent  women  gave  larger  as 
surance  of  her  position  and  dignity  than  all  besides. 
Before  the  first  year  of  her  advent  had  gone  by,  it  was 
quite  plain  that  she  was  to  become  one  of  the  prominent 
directors  of  the  female  world  of  Ashfield. 

Only  in  the  parsonage  itself  did  her  influence  find  its 
most  serious  limitations,  —  and  these  in  connection  with 
the  boy  Reuben. 


78  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

XV. 

Boy  Development. 

rjlHEKE  is  a  deep  emotional  nature  in  the  lad,  which, 
-*-  by  the  time  he  has  reached  his  eighth  year, — 
Miss  Eliza  having  now  been  in  the  position  of  mistress 
of  the  household  a  twelvemonth,  —  works  itself  off  in 
explosive  tempests  of  feeling,  with  which  the  prim 
spinster  has  but  faint  sympathy.  No  care  'could  be 
more  studious  and  complete  than  that  with  which  she 
looks  after  the  boy's  wardrobe  and  the  ordering  of  his 
little  chamber  ;  nay,  his  caprices  of  the  table  are  not 
wholly  overlooked,  and  she  hopes  to  win  upon  him  by 
the  dishes  that  are  most  toothsome  ;  but,  however  grate 
ful  for  the  moment,  his  boyish  affections  can  never  make 
their  way  with  any  force  or  passionate  flow  through  the 
stately  proprieties  of  manner  with  which  the  spinster 
aunt  is  always  hedged  about. 

He  wanders  away  after  school-hours  to  the  home  of 
the  Elderkins,  —  Phil  and  he  being  sworn  friends,  and 
the  good  mother  of  Phil  always  having  ready  for  him 
a  beaming  look  of  welcome  and  a  tender  word  or  two 
that  somehow  always  find  their  way  straight  to  his 
heart.  He  loiters  with  Larkin,  too,  by  the  great  stable- 
yard  of  the  inn,  though  it  is  forbidden  ground.  He 
breaks  in  upon  the  precise  woman's  rule  of  punctuality 


BOY  DEVELOPMENT.  79 

sadly  ;  many  a  cold  dish  he  eats  sulkily,  —  she  sitting 
bolt  upright  in  her  place  at  the  table,  looking  down  at 
him  with  glances  which  are  every  one  a  punishment. 
Other  times  he  is  straying  in  the  orchard  at  the  hour  of 
some  home-duty,  and  the  active  spinster  goes  to  seek 
him,  and  not  threateningly,  but  with  an  assured  step 
and  a  firm  grip  upon  the  hand  of  the  loiterer,  which  he 
knows  not  whether  to  count  a  favor  or  a  punishment, 
(and  she  as  much  at  a  loss,  so  inextricably  interwoven 
are  her  notions  of  duty  and  of  kindness,)  leads  him 
homeward,  plying  him  with  stately  precepts  upon  the 
sin  of  negligence,  and  with  earnest  story  of  the  dreadful 
fate  which  is  sure  to  overtake  all  bad  boys  who  do  not 
obey  and  keep  "by  the  rules." 

""Who  was  it  they  called  'bald-head,'  Reuben?  Elisha 
or  Elijah?" 

He,  in  no  mood  for  reply,  is  sulkily  beating  off  the 
daisies  with  his  feet,  as  she  drags  him  on  ;  sometimes 
hanging  back,  with  impotent,  yet  concealed  struggle, 
which  she  —  not  deigning  to  notice  —  overcomes  with 
even  sharper  step,  and  plies  him  the  more  closely  with 
the  dire  results  of  badness,  —  has  not  finished  her  talk, 
indeed,  when  they  reach  the  door-step  and  enter. 
There  he,  fuming  now  with  that  long  struggle,  fuming 
the  more  because  he  has  concealed  it,  makes  one  violent 
discharge  with  a  great  frown  on  his  little  face,  "You're 
an  ugly  old  thing,  and  I  don't  like  you  one  bit ! " 

Esther,  good  soul,  within  hearing  of  it,  lifts  her  hands 
in  apparent  horror,  but  inwardly  indulges  in  a  wicked 
chuckle  over  the  boy's  spirit. 


80  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

But  the  minister  has  heard  him,  too,  and  gravely 
summons  the  offender  into  his  study. 

"My  son,  Reuben,  this  is  very  wrong." 

And  the  boy  breaks  into  a  sob  at  this  stage,  which  is 
a  great  relief. 

"My  boy,  you  ought  to  love  your  aunt." 

"But  I  can't  make  myself  love  her,  if  I  don't,"  says 
the  boy. 

"It  is  your  duty  to  love  her,  Reuben  ;  and  we  can  all 
do  our  duty." 

Even  the  staid  clergyman  enjoys  the  boy's  discom 
fiture  under  so  orthodox  a  proposition.  Miss  Johns, 
however,  breaks  in  here,  having  overheard  the  latter 
part  of  the  talk  :  — 

"  No,  Benjamin,  I  wish  no  love  that  is  given  from  a 
sense  of  duty.  Reuben  sh'an't  be  forced  into  loving  his 
Aunt  Eliza." 

And  there  is  a  subdued  tone  in  her  speech  which 
touches  the  boy.  But  he  is  not  ready  yet  for  surren 
der;  he  watches  gravely  her  retirement,  and  for  an 
hour  shows  a  certain  preoccupation  at  his  play ;  then 
his  piping  voice  is  heard  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  — 

"  Aunt  Eliza  !     Are  you  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  Master  Reuben !" 

Master !  It  cools  somewhat  his  generous  intent ;  but 
he  is  in  for  it ;  and  he  climbs  the  stair,  sidles  uneasily 
into  the  chamber  where  she  sits  at  her  work,  stealing  a 
swift,  inquiring  look  into  that  gray  eye  of  hers,  — 

"I  say  —  Aunt  Eliza — I 'm  sorry  I  said  that  —  you 
know  what/' 


BOY  DEVELOPMENT.  81 

And  he  looks  up  with  a  little  of  the  old  yearning,  — 
the  yearning  he  used  to  feel  when  another  sat  in  that 
place. 

"Ah,  that  is  right,  Master  Reuben  !  I  hope  we  shall 
be  friends,  now." 

Another  disturbed  look  at  her,  —  remembering  the 
time  when  he  would  have  leaped  into  a  mother's  arms, 
after  such  struggle  with  his  self-will,  and  found  glad 
ness.  That  is  gone  ;  no  swift  embrace,  no  tender  hand 
toying  with  his  hair,  beguiling  him  from  play.  And  he 
sidles  out  again,  half  shamefaced  at  a  surrender  that  has 
wrought  so  little.  Loitering,  and  playing  with  the 
balusters  as  he  descends,  the  swift,  keen  voice  comes 
after  him,  — 

"  Don't  soil  the  paint,  Reuben  !  " 

"I  have  n't." 

And  the  swift  command  and  as  swift  retort  put  him 
in  his  old,  wicked  mood  again,  and  he  breaks  out  into 
a  defiant  whistle.  (Over  and  over  the  spinster  has 
told  him  it  was  improper  to  whistle  in-doors.)  Yet, 
with  a  lingering  desire  for  sympathy,  Reuben  makes 
his  way  into  his  father's  study  ;  and  the  minister  lays 
down  his  great  folio,  —  it  is  Poole's  "  Annotations,"  — 
and  says, — 

"Well,  Reuben!" 

" I  told  her  I  was  sorry,"  says  the  boy  ;  "but  I  don't 
believe  she  likes  me  much." 

"Why,  my  son?" 

"  Because  she  called  me  Master,  and  said  it  was  very 
proper." 

6 


82  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"But  does  n't  that  show  an  interest  in  you ?" 

"  Mamma  never  called  me  Master,"  said  Reuben. 

The  grave  minister  bites  his  lip,  beckons  his  boy  to 
him,  —  "  Here,  my  son  !  "  —  passes  his  arm  around  him, 
had  almost  drawn  him  to  his  heart,  — 

"  There,  there,  Reuben  ;  leave  me  now  ;  I  have  my 
sermon  to  finish.  I  hope  you  won't  be  disrespectful  to 
your  aunt  again.  Shut  the  door." 

In  the  summer  of  1828  Mr.  Johns  was  called  upon 
to  preach  a  special  discourse  at  the  Commencement 
exercises  of  the  college  from  which  he  had  received 
his  degree  ;  and  so  sterlingly  orthodox  was  his  sermon, 
at  a  crisis  when  some  sister  colleges  were  bolstering  up 
certain  new  theological  tenets  which  had  a  strong  taint 
of  heresy,  that  the  old  gentlemen  who  held  rank  as 
fellows  of  his  college,  in  a  burst  of  zeal,  bestowed  upon 
the  worthy  man  the  title  of  D.  D. 

The  spinster  sister,  with  an  ill-concealed  pride,  was 
most  zealous  in  the  bestowal  of  it ;  and  before  a 
month  had  passed,  she  had  forced  it  into  current  use 
throughout  the  world  of  Ashfield. 

Did  a  neglectful  neighbor  speak  of  the  good  health 
of  "  Mr.  Johns,"  the  mistress  of  the  parsonage  said,  — 
"  Why,  yes,  the  Doctor  is  working  very  hard,  it  is  true  ; 
but  he  is  quite  well ;  the  Doctor  is  remarkably  well." 

As  for  Larkin  and  Esther,  wrho  stumbled  dismally 
over  the  new  title,  the  spinster  plied  them  urgently. 

"Esther,  my  good  woman,  make  the  Doctor's  tea 
very  strong  to-night." 

"  Larkin,  the  Doctor  won't  ride  to-day  ;   and  mind, 


BOY  DEVELOPMENT.  F3 

you  must  cut  the  wood  for  the  Doctor's  fire  a  little 
shorter." 

To  the  quiet,  staid  man  himself  it  was  a  wholly  in 
different  matter.  In  the  solitude  of  his  study,  how 
ever,  it  recalled  a  neglected  duty,  and  in  so  far  seemed 
a  blessing.  By  such  paltry  threads  are  the  colors 
woven  into  our  life !  It  recalled  his  friend  Maverick 
and  his  jaunty  prediction  ;  and  upon  that  came  to  him 
a  recollection  of  the  promise  which  he  had  made  to 
Rachel,  that  he  would  write  to  Maverick. 

So  the  minister  •wrote,  telling  his  old  friend  what 
grief  had  stricken  his  house,  —  how  his  boy  and  he 
were  left  alone,  —  how  the  church,  by  favor  of  Provi 
dence,  had  grown  under  his  preaching,  —  how  his  sister 
had  come  to  be  mistress  of  the  parsonage,  —  how  he 
had  -wrought  the  Master's  work  in  fear  and  trembling  ; 
and  after  this  came  godly  counsel  for  the  exile. 

"My  friend,"  he  wrote,  ''God's  Word  is  true  ;  God's 
laws  are  just ;  He  will  come  some  day  in  a  chariot  of 
fire.  Neither  moneys  nor  high  places  nor  worldly  hon 
ors  nor  pleasures  can  stay  or  avert  the  stroke  of  that 
sword  of  divine  justice  which  will  'pierce  even  to  the 
dividing  asunder  of  the  joints  and  marrow/  " 

"Whether  these  words  of  the  minister  were  met*  after 
their  transmission  over  seas,  with  a  smile  of  derision,  — 
with  an  empty  gratitude,  that  said,  "  Good  fellow ! " 
and  forgot  their  burden,  we  will  not  say. 

The  cross-ocean  mails  were  slow  in  those  days ;  and 
it  was  not  until  nearly  four  months  after  the  transmis 
sion  of  the  Doctor's  letter  —  he  having  almost  forgotten 


84  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

it  —  that  Reuben  came  one  day  bounding  in  from  the 
snow  in  mid-winter,  his  cheeks  aflame  with  the  keen, 
frosty  air,  his  eyes  dancing  with  boyish  excitement :  — 

"  A  letter,  papa  !  a  letter  !  —  and  Mr.  Troop  "  (it  is 
the  new  postmaster  under  the  Adams  dynasty)  "  says  it 
came  all  the  way  from  Europe.  It 's  got  a  funny  post 
mark." 

The  minister  lays  down  his  book,  —  takes  the  letter, 
—  opens  it,  —  reads,  —  paces  up  and  down  his  study 
thoughtfully,  — reads  again,  to  the  end. 

"Reuben,  call  your  Aunt  Eliza." 

There  is  matter  in  the  letter  that  concerns  her, — 
that  in  its  issues  will  concern  the  boy,  —  that  may  pos 
sibly  give  a  new  color  to  the  life  of  the  parsonage,  and 
a  new  direction  to  our  story. 


XVI. 

A   Surprise. 

MISS  ELIZA  being  fairly  seated  in  the  Doctor's 
study,  with  great  eagerness  to  hear  what  might 
be  the  subject  of  his  communication,  the  parson,  with 
die  letter  in  his  hand,  asked  if  she  remembered  an  old 
college  friend,  Maverick,  who  had  once  paid  them  a  va 
cation  visit  at  Canterbury. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  whose  memoiy  was  both 
keen  and  retentive  ;  "  and  I  remember  that  you  have  said 
he  once  passed  a  night  with  you,  during  the  lifetime  of 


A   SURPRISE.  85 

poor  Rachel,  here  at  Ashfield.  You  have  a  letter  from 
him?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  parson  ;  "  and  it  brings  a  proposal 
about  which  I  wish  your  opinion."  And  the  Doctor 
cast  his  eye  over  the  letter. 

"  He  expresses  deep  sympathy  at  my  loss,  and  alludes 
very  pleasantly  to  the  visit  you  speak  of,  all  which  I  will 
not  read  ;  after  this  he  says,  '  I  little  thought,  when 
bantering  you  in  your  little  study  upon  your  family 
prospects,  that  I  too  was  destined  to  become  the  father  of 
a  child,  within  a  couple  of  years.  Yet  it  is  even  so  ;  and 
the  responsibility  weighs  upon  me  greatly.  I  love  my 
Adele  with  my  whole  heart ;  I  am  sure  you  cannot  love 
your  boy  more,  though  perhaps  more  wisely.'  " 

"  And  he  had  never  told  you  of  his  marriage?"  said 
the  spinster. 

"  Never  ;  it  is  the  only  line  I  have  had  from  him  since 
his  visit  ten  years  ago." 

The  doctor  goes  on  with  the  reading  :  — 

"  It  may  be  from  a  recollection  of  your  warnings  and 
your  distrust  of  the  French  character,  or  possibly  it  may 
be  from  the  prejudices  of  my  New  England  education,  but 
I  can't  entertain  pleasantly  the  thought  of  her  growing 
up  under  the  influences  about  her  here.  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  enough  to  win  upon  your  sympathy  to  say  that  those 
influences  are  Popish  and  thoroughly  French.  I  feel  a 
strong  wish,  therefore,  —  much  as  I  am  attached  to  the 
dear  child,  —  to  give  her  the  advantages  of  a  New  Eng 
land  education  and  training.  And  with  this  wish,  my 
thought  goes  back  naturally  to  the  quiet  of  your  little 


86  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

town  and  of  your  household  ;  for  I  cannot  doubt  that  it 
is  the  same  under  the  care  of  your  sister  as  in  the  old 
time." 

"  I  am  glad  he  thinks  so  well  of  me,"  said  Miss  Eliza, 
but  with  an  irony  in  her  tone  that  she  was  sure  the  good 
parson  would  never  detect. 

The  doctor  looks  at  her  thoughtfully  a  moment,  over 
the  edge  of  the  letter,  —  as  if  he,  too,  had  his  quiet  com 
parisons  to  make,  —  then  goes  on  with  the  letter  :  — 

"  This  wish  may  surprise  you,  since  you  remember  my 
old  battlings  with  what  I  counted  the  rigors  of  a  New 
England  '  bringing-up  ; '  but  in  this  case  I  should  not 
fear  them,  provided  I  could  assure  myself  of  your  kindly 
supervision.  For  my  little  Adele,  besides  inheriting  a 
great  flow  of  spirits  (from  her  father,  you  will  say)  and 
French  blood,  has  been  used  thus  far  to  a  catholic  lati 
tude  of  talk  and  manner  in  all  about  her,  which  will  so 
far  counterbalance  the  gravities  of  your  region  as  to 
leave  her,  I  think,  upon  a  safe  middle  ground.  At  any 
rate,  I  see  enough  to  persuade  me  to  choose  rather  the 
errors  that  may  grow  upon  her  girlhood  there  than  those 
that  would  grow  upon  it  here. 

"Frankly,  now,  may  I  ask  you  to  undertake,  with 
your  good  sister,  for  a  few  years,  the  responsibility 
which  I  have  suggested  ?  " 

The  Doctor  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  sheet  toward 
Miss  Eliza. 

"Read  on,  Benjamin,"  said  she. 

"  The  matter  of  expenses,  I  am  happy  to  say,  is  one 
which  need  not  enter  into  your  consideration  of  the 


A   SURPRISE.  87 

question.  My  business  successes  have  been  such 
that  any  estimate  which  you  may  make  of  the  moneys 
required  will  be  at  your  call  at  the  office  of  our  house 
in  Xewburyport. 

"  I  have  the  utmost  faith  in  you,  my  dear  Johns ; 
and  I  want  you  to  have  faith  in  the  earnestness  with 
which  I  press  this  proposal  on  your  notice.  You  will 
wonder,  perhaps,  how  the  mother  of  my  little  Adele 
can  be  a  party  to  such  a  plan  ;  but  I  may  assure  you, 
that,  if  your  consent  be  gained,  it  will  meet  with  no 
opposition  in  that  quarter.  This  fact  may  possibly 
confirm  some  of  your  worst  theories  in  regard  to 
French  character  ;  and  in  this  letter,  at  least,  you  will 
not  expect  me  to  combat  them. 

"  I  have  said  that  she  has  lived  thus  far  under  Popish 
influences ;  but  her  religious  character  is  of  course  un 
formed  ;  indeed,  she  has  as  yet  developed  in  no  serious 
direction  whatever ;  I  think  you  will  find  a  tabula  rasa 
to  write  your  tenets  upon.  But,  if  she  comes  to  you, 
do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  grave  them  too  harshly  ;  she  is 
too  bird-like  to  be  treated  with  severity;  and  I  know 
that  under  all  your  gravity,  my  dear  Johns,  there  is  a 
kindliness  of  heart  which,  if  you  only  allowed  it  utter 
ance,  would  win  greatly  upon  this  little  fondling  of 
mine.  And  I  think  that  her  open,  laughing  face  may 
win  upon  you. 

"Adele  has  been  taught  English,  and  I  have  pur 
posely  held  all  my  prattle  with  her  in  the  same  tongue, 
and  her  familiarity  with  it  is  such  that  you  would 
hardly  detect  a  French  accent.  I  am  not  particularly 


88  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

anxious  that  she  should  maintain  her  knowledge  of 
French;  still,  should  a  good  opportunity  occur,  and  a 
competent  teacher  be  available,  it  might  be  well  for  her 
to  do  so.  In  all  such  matters  I  should  rely  greatly  on 
your  judgment. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Johns," 

Miss  Eliza  interrupts  by  saying,  "  I  think  your  friend 
is  very  familiar,  Benjamin." 

"Why  not?  why  not,  Eliza?  We  were  boys  to 
gether." 

And  he  continues  with  the  letter  :  — 

"My  dear  Johns,  I  want  you  to  consider  this  matter 
fairly ;  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  one  that  lies  very 
near  my  heart.  Should  you  determine  to  accept  the 
trust,  there  is  a  ship  which  wih1  be  due  at  this  port  some 
four  or  five  months  from  now,  whose  master  I  know 
well,  and  with  whom  I  should  feel  safe  to  trust  my 
little  Adele  for  the  voyage,  providing  at  the  same  time 
a  female  attendant  upon  whom  I  can  rely,  and  who  will 
not  leave  the  little  voyager  until  she  is  fairly  under 
your  wing.  In  two  or  three  years  thereafter,  at  most, 
I  hope  to  come  to  receive  her  from  you ;  and  then, 
when  she  shall  have  made  a  return  visit  to  Europe,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  I  may  establish  myself  in  my  own 
country  again.  Should  you  wish  it,  I  could  arrange 
for  the  attendant  to  remain  with  her ;  but  I  confess 
that  I  should  prefer  the  contrary.  I  want  to  separate 
her  for  the  time,  so  far  as  I  can,  from  all  the  influences 
to  which  she  has  been  subject  here  ;  and  further  than 
this,  I  have  a  strong  faith  in  that  self-dependence  which 


A   SURPRISE.  89 

seems  to  me  to  grow  out  of  your  old-fashioned  New 
England  training." 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  Doctor,  quietly  folding  the 
letter.  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  proposal,  Eliza? " 

"  I  like  it,  Benjamin." 

The  spinster  was  a  woman  of  quick  decision.  Had 
it  been  proposed  to  receive  an  ordinary  pupil  in  the 
house  for  any  pecuniary  consideration,  her  pride  would 
have  revolted  on  the  instant.  But  here  was  a  child  of 
an  old  friend  of  the  Doctor,  a  little  Christian  waif,  as  it 
were,  floating  toward  them  from  that  unbelieving  world 
of  France. 

"  Surely  it  will  be  a  worthy  and  an  honorable  task 
for  Benjamin  "  (so  thought  Miss  Eliza)  "to  redeem  this 
little  creature  from  its  graceless  fortune  ;  possibly,  too, 
the  companionship  may  soften  that  wild  boy,  Reuben. 
This  French  girl,  Adele,  is  rich,  well-born  ;  what  if, 
from  being  inmates  of  the  same  house,  the  two  should 
come  by  and  by  to  be  joined  by  some  tenderer  tie  ?  " 

The  possibility,  even,  of  such  a  dawn  of  sentiment 
under  the  spinster's  watchful  tutelage  was  a  delightful 
subject  of  reflection  to  her. 

Miss  Johns,  too,  without  being  imaginative,  pre 
figured  in  her  mind  the  image  of  the  little  French 
stranger,  with  foreign  air  and  dress,  tripping  beside 
her  up  the  meeting-house  aisle,  looking  into  her  face 
confidingly  for  guidance,  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
simple  towns-people  in  such  sort  that  a  distinction 
would  belong  to  her  protegee  which  would  be  pleasantly 
reflected  upon  herself. 


90  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

(( I  think,"  said  she,  "  that  you  can  hardly  decline 
the  proposal  of  Mr.  Maverick,  Benjamin." 

"  And  you  will  take  the  home  care  of  her  ? "  asked 
the  Doctor. 

"  Certainly.  She  would  at  first,  I  suppose,  attend 
school  with  Beuben  and  the  young  Elderkins  ?  " 

"Probably,"  returned  the  Doctor;  "but  the  more 
special  religious  training  which  I  fear  the  poor  girl 
needs  must  be  given  at  home,  Eliza." 

"  Of  course,  Benjamin." 

It  was  further  agreed  between  the  two  that  a  French 
attendant  would  make  a  very  undesirable  addition  to  the 
household,  as  well  as  sadly  compromise  their  efforts  to 
build  up  the  little  stranger  in  full  knowledge  of  the  faith. 

The  Doctor  was  earnest  in  his  convictions  of  the  duty 
that  lay  before  him,  and  his  sister's  consent  to  share  the 
charge  left  him  free  to  act.  He  felt  all  the  best  im 
pulses  of  his  nature  challenged  by  the  proposal.  Here, 
at  least,  was  one  chance  to  snatch  a  brand  from  the 
burning,  —  to  lead  this  poor  little  misguided  wayfarer 
into  those  paths  which  are  "paths  of  pleasantness." 
No  image  of  French  grace  or  of  French  modes  was  pre 
figured  to  the  mind  of  the  parson  ;  his  imagination  had 
different  range.  He  saw  a  young  innocent  (so  far  as 
any  child  in  his  view  could  be  innocent)  who  prattled  in 
the  terrible  language  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  who  by 
the  providence  of  God  had  been  born  in  a  realm  where 
all  iniquities  nourished,  and  to  whom,  by  the  further 
and  richer  providence  of  God,  a  means  of  escape  was 
now  offered. 


SfC/RAflSHlNGS.  91 

Within  that  very  week  the  Doctor  wrote  his  reply  to 
Maverick.  He  assured  him  that  he  would  most  gladly 
undertake  the  trust  he  had  proposed,  —  "  hoping,  by 
God's  grace,  to  lead  the  little  one  away  from  the  delu 
sions  of  sense  and  the  abominations  of  Antichrist,  to 
the  fold  of  the  faithful." 

"My  sister  has  promised,"  he  continued,  "to  give 
home  care  to  the  little  stranger,  and  will,  I  am  sure, 
welcome  her  with  zeal  It  wijl  be  our  purpose  to  place 
your  daughter  at  the  day-school  of  a  worthy  person, 
Miss  Betsey  Onthank,  who  has  had  large  experience, 
and  under  whose  tuition  my  boy  Eeuben  has  been  for 
some  time  established.  My  sister  and  myself  are  both 
of  opinion  that  the  presence  of  any  French  attendant 
upon  the  child  would  be  undesirable. 

"  I  hope  that  God  may  have  mercy  upon  the  French 
people,  —  and  that  those  who  dwell  temporarily  among 
them  may  be  watched  over  and  be  graciously  snatched 
from  the  great  destruction  that  awaits  the  ungodly." 


xm 

Skirmishings. 

MEANTIME  Eeuben  grew  into  a  knowledge  of  all 
the  town  mischief,  and  into  the  practice  of  such 
as  came  within  the  scope  of  his  years.     The  proposed 
introduction  of  the  young  stranger  from  abroad  to  the 
advantages  of  the  parsonage  home  did  not  weigh  upon 


92  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

his  thought  greatly.  In  his  private  talk  with  Esther,  he 
had  said,  "  I  hope  that  French  girl  '11  be  a  clever  un  ;  if 

she  a'n't,  I  11 " and  he  doubled  up  a  little  fist,  and 

shook  it,  so  that  Esther  laughed  outright. 

Not  that  the  boy  had  any  cruelty  in  him,  but  he  was 
just  now  learning  from  his  older  companions  of  the 
village,  who  were  more  steeped  in  iniquity,  that  defiant 
manner  by  which  the  Devil  in  all  of  us  makes  his  first 
pose  preparatory  to  the  onslaught  that  is  to  come. 

"  Nay,  Ruby,  boy,"  said  Esther,  when  she  had  re 
covered  from  her  laughter,  "you  would  n't  hurt  the 
little  un,  would  ye  ?  Don't  ye  want  a  little  playfellow, 
Euby  ?  " 

"I  don't  play  with  girls,  I  don't,"  said  Reuben.  "But, 
I  say,  Esther,  what  '11  papa  do,  if  she  dances  ?  " 

"  What  makes  the  boy  think  she'll  dance  ?  "  said  Es 
ther. 

"Because  the  Geography  says  the  French  people 
dance  ;  and  Phil  Elderkin  showed  me  a  picture  with 
girls  dancing  under  a  tree,  and,  says  he,  '  That 's  the  sort 
that  's  comin'  to  y'r  house.' " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Esther,  "but  I  guess  your 
Aunt  Eliza  'd  cure  the  dancin'." 

"  She  would  n't  cure  me,  if  I  wanted  to,"  said  Reuben, 
who  thought  it  needful  to  speak  in  terms  of  bravado 
about  the  spinster,  with  whom  he  kept  up  a  series  of 
skirmishing  fights  from  week  to  week.  Over  and  over, 
she  warned  him  against  the  evil  associates  whom  he 
would  find  about  the  village  tavern,  where  he  strayed 
from  time  to  time  to  be  witness  to  some  dog-fight,  or  to 


SKIRMISHINGS.  93 

receive  a  commendatory  glance  of  recognition  from  one 
Nat  Boody,  the  tavern-keeper's  son,  who  had  run  away 
two  years  before  and  made  a  voyage  down  the  river  in  a 
sloop  laden  with  apples  and  onions  to  "  York."  He  was 
a  head  taller  than  Reuben,  and  the  latter  admired  him 
intensely.  Reuben  absolutely  pined  in  longing  wonder 
ment  at  the  way  in  which  Nat  Boody  could  crack  a  coach- 
whip,  and  with  a  couple  of  hickory  sticks  co'uld  "  call  the 
roll  "  upon  a  pine  table  equal  to  a  drum-major.  Such  an 
air,  too,  as  this  Boody  had,  leaning  against  the  pump- 
handle  by  his  father's  door,  and  making  cuts  at  an  im 
aginary  span  of  horses  !  —  such  a  pair  of  twilled  trousers, 
cut  like  a  man's  ! — such  a  jacket,  with  lapels  to  the 
pockets,  which  he  said  "  the  sailors  wore  on  the  sloops, 
and  called  'em  monkey-jackets  !  " 

The  truth  is,  that  it  was  not  altogether  from  admira 
tion  of  the  accomplished  Nat  Boody  that  Reuben  was 
prone  to  linger  about  the  tavern  neighborhood.  The 
spinster  had  so  strongly  and  constantly  impressed  it 
upon  him  that  it  was  a  low  and  vulgar  and  wicked  place, 
that  the  boy,  growing  vastly  inquisitive  in  these  years, 
was  curious  to  find  out  what  shape  the  wickedness  took  ; 
and  as  he  walked  by,  sometimes  at  dusk,  when  thoroughly 
infused  with  the  last  teachings  of  Miss  Eliza,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  might  possibly  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
hoofs  of  some  devil  (as  he  had  seen  devils  pictured  in  an 
illustrated  Milton)  capering  about  the  doorway,  —  and 
if  he  had  seen  them,  truth  compels  us  to  say  that  he 
would  have  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  follow  them  up, 
at  a  safe  distance,  in  order  to  see  what  kind  of  creatures 


94  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

might  be  wearing  them.  But  he  was  far  more  apt  to 
see  the  lounging  figure  of  the  shoemaker  from  down 
the  street,  or  of  Mr.  Postmaster  Troop,  coming  thither 
to  have  an  evening's  chat  about  Vice-President  Calhoun, 
or  William  Wirt  and  the  Anti-Masons.  Or  possibly,  it 
might  be,  he  would  see  the  light  heels  of  Suke  Boody, 
the  pretty  daughter  of  the  tavern-keeper,  who  had  been 
pronounced  by  Phil  Elderkin,  who  knew  (being  a  year 
his  senior),  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  town.  This 
might  weh1  be  ;  for  Suke  was  just  turned  of  fifteen,  with 
pink  arms  and  pink  cheeks  and  blue  eyes  and  a  great 
flock  of  brown  hair  :  not  very  startling  in  her  beauty  on 
ordinary  days,  when  she  appeared  in  a  pinned-up  quilted 
petticoat,  and  her  curls  in  papers,  sweeping  the  tavern- 
steps  ;  but  of  a  Saturday  afternoon,  in  red  and  white 
calico,  with  the  curls  all  streaming,  —  no  wonder  Phil 
Elderkin,  who  was  tall  of  his  age,  thought  her  handsome. 
Pondering,  as  Reuben,  did,  upon  the  repeated  warn 
ings  of  the  spinster  against  any  familiarity  with  the 
tavern  or  tavern  people,  he  came  in  time  to  reckon  the 
old  creaking  sign-board,  and  the  pump  in  the  inn-yard, 
as  the  pivotal  points  of  ah1  the  town  wickedness,  just  as 
the  meeting-house  was  the  centre  of  all  the  town  good 
ness  ;  and  since  the  great  world  was  very  wicked,  as  he 
knew  from  overmuch  iteration  at  home,  and  since  com 
munication  with  that  wicked  world  was  kept  up  mostly 
by  the  stage-coach  that  stopped  every  noon  at  the  tav 
ern-door,  it  seemed  to  him  that  relays  of  wickedness 
must  flow  into  the  tavern  and  town  daily  upon  that  old 
swaying  stage-coach,  just  as  relays  of  goodness  might 


SKIRMISHINGS.  95 

come  to  the  meeting-house  on  some  old  lumbering 
chaise  of  a  neighboring  parson,  who  once  a  month, 
perhaps,  would  "  exchange  "  with  the  Doctor.  And  it 
confirmed  in  Reuben's  mind  a  good  deal  that  was 
taught  him  about  natural  depravity,  when  he  found 
himself  looking  out  with  very  much  more  eagerness  for 
the  rumbling  coach,  that  kept  up  a  daily  wicked  activity 
about  the  tavern,  than  he  did  for  Parson  Hobson,  who 
snuffled  in  his  reading,  and  who  drove  an  old,  thin- 
tailed  sorrel  mare,  with  lopped  ears  and  lank  jaws,  that 
made  passes  at  himself  and  Phil,  if  they  teased  her,  — 
as  they  always  did. 

So,  too,  he  came  to  regard,  in  virtue  of  misplaced 
home  instruction,  the  monkey-jacket  of  Nat  Boody,  and 
his  fighting-dog  "  Scamp,"  and  the  pink  arms  and  pink 
cheeks  and  brown  ringlets  of  Suke  Boody,  as  so  many 
types  of  human  wickedness  ;  and,  by  parity  of  reason 
ing,  he  came  to  look  upon  the  two  flat  curls  on  either 
temple  of  his  Aunt  Eliza,  and  her  pragmatic  way,  and 
upon  the  yellow  ribbons  within  the  scoop-hat  of  Almira 
Tourtelot,  who  sang  treble  and  never  went  to  the  tav 
ern,  as  the  types  of  goodness.  What  wonder,  if  he 
swayed  more  and  more  toward  the  broad  and  easy  path 
that  lay  around  the  tavern-pump  ("  Scamp"  lying  there 
biting  at  the  flies),  and  toward  the  bar-room,  with  its 
flaming  pictures  of  some  past  menagerie-show,  and  big 
tumblers  with  lemons  atop,  rather  than  to  the  strait 
and  narrow  path  in  which  his  Aunt  Eliza  and  Miss  Al 
mira  would  guide  him  with  sharp  voices,  thin  faces,  and 
decoy  of  dyspeptic  doughnuts? 


96  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Phil  and  he  sauntering  by  one  day,  Phil  says, — 

"  Darst  you  go  in,  Reub  ?  " 

Phil  was  under  no  law  of  prohibition.  And  Reuben, 
glancing  around  the  Common,  says,  — 

"Yes,  7 11  go." 

"  Then,"  says  Phil,  "  we  11  call  for  a  glass  of  lemon 
ade.  Fellows  'most  always  order  something  when  they 
go  in." 

So  Phil,  swelling  with  his  ten  years,  and  tall  of  his 
age,  walks  to  the  bar  and  calls  for  two  tumblers  of  lem 
onade,  which  Old  Boody  stirs  with  an  appetizing  rattle 
of  the  toddy- stick,  —  dropping,  meantime,  a  query  or 
two  about  the  Squire,  and  a  look  askance  at  the  parson's 
boy,  who  is  trying  very  hard  to  wear  an  air  as  if  he,  too, 
were  ten,  and  knew  the  ropes. 

"It's  good,  a'n't  it?"  says  Phil,  putting  down  his 
money,  of  which  he  always  had  a  good  stock. 

"Prime  !  "  says  Reuben,  with  a  smack  of  the  lips. 

And  then  Suke  comes  in,  hunting  over  the  room  for 
last  week's  "  Courant ; "  and  the  boys,  with  furtive 
glances  at  those  pink  cheeks  and  brown  ringlets,  go 
down  the  steps. 

"  A'n't  she  handsome  ?  "  says  Phil. 


EXPECTATION.  97 

xvm. 

Expectation. 

IT  was  some  four  or  five  months  after  the  despatch  of 
the  Doctor's  letter  to  Maverick  before  the  reply 
came.  His  friend  expressed  the  utmost  gratitude  for 
the  Doctor's  prompt  and  hearty  acceptance  of  his  pro 
posal. 

"  I  want,"  said  Maverick  in  his  letter,  "  that  Adele, 
while  having  a  thorough  womanly  education,  should 
grow  up  with  simple  tastes.  I  think  I  see  a  little  ten 
dency  in  her  to  a  good  many  idle  coquetries  of  dress 
(these  you  will  set  down,  I  know,  to  her  French  blood), 
•which  I  trust  your  good  sister  will  see  the  prudence  of 
correcting.  My  fortune  is  now  such  that  I  may  reason 
ably  hope  to  put  luxuries  within  her  reach,  if  they  be 
desirable  ;  but  of  this  I  should  prefer  that  she  remain 
ignorant.  I  want  to  see  established  in  her  what  you 
would  call  those  moral  and  religious  bases  of  character 
that  will  sustain  her  under  any  possible  reverses  or  dis 
appointments. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Johns,  I  come  to  refer  to  a  cer 
tain  allusion  in  your  letter  with  some  embarrassment. 
You  speak  of  the  weight  of  a  mother's  religious  influ 
ence,  and  ask  what  it  may  have  been.  Since  extreme 
childhood,  Adele  has  been  almost  entirely  under  the 

care  of  her  godmother,  a  quiet  old  lady,  who,  though  a 

7 


98  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

devotee  of  the  Popish  Church,  you  must  allow  me  to 
say,  is  a  downright  good  Christian  woman.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  she  has  not  pressed  upon  the  conscience  of 
little  Adele  any  bigotries  of  the  Church.  Why  it  is  that 
the  mother's  relations  with  the  child  have  been  so  bro 
ken  you  will  spare  me  the  pain  of  explaining. 

"  Would  to  God,  I  think  at  times,  that  I  had  married 
years  ago  one  nurtured  in  our  old-fashioned  faith  of 
New  England,  —  some  gentle,  pure,  loving  soul !  Shall 
I  confess  it,  Johns  ?  —  the  little  glimpse  of  your  lost 
Eachel  gave  me  an  idea  of  the  tenderness  and  depth 
of  devotion  and  charming  womanliness  of  many  of  those 
whom  I  had  counted  stiff  and  repulsive,  which  I  never 
possessed  before. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  friend,  for  an  allusion  which  may 
provoke  your  grief,  and  which  may  seem  utterly  out  of 
place  in  the  talk  of  one  who  is  just  now  confiding  to  you 
his  daughter. 

"  When  little  Adele  comes  to  me,  and  sits  upon  my 
knee,  as  I  write,  I  almost  lose  courage. 

" '  Adele,'  I  say,  '  will  you  leave  your  father,  and  go 
far  away  over  seas,  to  stay  perhaps  for  years  ? ' 

"'You  talk  nonsense,  papa,' she  says,  and  leaps  into 
my  arms. 

"  My  heart  cleaves  strangely  to  her :  I  do  not  know 
wholly  why.  And  yet  she  must  go  :  it  is  best. 

"  The  vessel  of  which  I  spoke  will  sail  in  three  weeks 
from  the  date  of  my  letter  for  the  port  of  New  York. 
I  have  made  ample  provision  for  her  comfort  on  the 
passage ;  and  as  the  date  of  the  ship's  arrival  in  New 


EXPECTATION.  99 

York  is  uncertain,  I  must  beg  you  to  arrange  with  some 
friend  there,  if  possible,  to  protect  the  little  stranger, 
until  you  are  ready  to  receive  her.  I  inclose  my  draft 
for  three  hundred  dollars,  which  I  trust  may  be  suffi 
cient  for  a  year's  maintenance,  seeing  that  she  goes 
well  provided  with  clothing  :  if  otherwise,  you  will 
please  inform  me." 

Dr.  Johns  was  not  a  man  to  puzzle  himself  with  idle 
conjectures  in  regard  to  the  private  affairs  of  his  friend. 
With  all  kind  feeling  for  him,  —  and  Maverick's  con 
fidence  in  the  Doctor  had  insensibly  given  large  growth 
to  it,  —  the  parson  dismissed  the  whole  affair  with  this 
logical  reflection  :  — 

My  poor  friend  has  been  decoyed  into  marrying  a 
Frenchwoman.  Frenchwomen  (like  Frenchmen)  are  all 
children  of  Satan.  He  is  now  reaping  the  bitter  re 
sults. 

"As  for  the  poor  child,"  thought  the  Doctor,  and  his 
heart  glowed  at  the  thought,  "  I  will  plant  her  little  feet 
upon  safe  places." 

He  arranges  with  Mrs.  Brindlock  to  receive  the  child 
temporarily  upon  her  arrival.  Miss  Eliza  puts  even 
more  than  her  usual  vigor  and  system  into  her'  arrange 
ments  for  the  reception  of  the  new-comer.  Nothing 
could  be  neater  than  the  little  chamber,  provided  with 
its  white  curtains,  its  spotless  linen,  its  dark  old  mahog 
any  furniture,  its  Testament  and  Catechism  upon  the 
toilet-table  ;  one  or  two  vases  of  old  china  had  been 
brought  up  and  placed  upon  brackets  out  of  reach  of 
the  little  hands  that  might  have  been  tempted  by  their 


ioo  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

beauty,  and  a  coquettish  porcelain  image  of  a  flower* 
girl  had  been  added  to  the  other  simple  adornments 
which  the  ambitious  spinster  had  lavished  upon  the 
chamber. 

"  There,"  said  she  to  Esther,  as  she  gave  a  finishing 
touch  to  the  disposal  of  the  blue  and  white  hangings 
about  the  high-post  bedstead,  "  I  wonder  if  that  will  be 
to  the  taste  of  the  little  French  lady  !  " 

"  I  should  think  it  might,  inarm  ;  it 's  the  beautiful- 
lest  room  I  ever  see,  marm." 

Reuben,  boy-like,  passes  in  and  out  with  an  air  of 
affected  indifference,  as  if  the  arrangements  for  the  new 
arrival  had  no  interest  for  him  ;  and  he  whistles  more 
defiantly  than  ever. 

XIX. 

The  Arrival. 

TN  early  September  of  1829,  when  the  orchard  behind 
-•-  the  parsonage  was  glowing  with  its  burden  of  fruit, 
when  the  white  and  crimson  hollyhocks  were  lifting 
their  slanted  pagodas  of  bloom  all  down  the  garden, 
and  the  buckwheat  was  whitening  with  its  blossoms 
broad  patches  of  the  hill-sides  east  and  west  of  Ashfield, 
news  came  to  the  Doctor  that  his  expected  guest  had  ar 
rived  safely  in  New  York,  and  was  waiting  his  presence 
there  at  the  elegant  home  of  Mrs.  Brindlock.  And  Sis 
ter  Mabel  writes  to  the  Doctor,  in  the  letter  which  con 
veys  intelligence  of  the  arrival,  —  "  She  's  a  charming 


THE   ARRIVAL.  101 

little  witch ;  and  if  you  don't  like  to  take  her  with 
you,  she  may  stay  here."  Mrs.  Brindlock  had  no  chil 
dren. 

A  visit  to  New  York  was  an  event  for  the  parson. 
The  spinster,  eager  for  his  good  appearance  at  the  home 
of  her  stylish  sister,  insisted  upon  a  toilet  that  made  the 
poor  man  more  awkward  than  ever. 

The  Biindlocks  received  the  parson  with  an  efferves 
cence  of  kindness  that  disturbed  him  almost  as  much 
as  the  stiff  garniture  in  which  he  had  been  invested  by 
the  solicitude  of  Miss  Eliza  ;  and  when,  in  addition  to 
his  double  embarrassment,  a  little  saucy-eyed,  brown- 
faced  girl,  full  of  mirthful  exuberance,  with  her  dark 
hair  banded  in  a  way  that  was  utterly  strange  to  him, 
and  with  coquettish  bows  of  ribbon  at  her  throat,  at 
either  armlet  of  her  jaunty  frock,  and  all  down  either 
side  of  her  silk  pinafore,  came  toward  him  with  a  smil 
ing  air,  as  if  she  were  confident  of  his  caresses,  the 
awkwardness  of  the  poor  Doctor  was  complete. 

But,  catching  sight  of  a  certain  frank  outlook  in  the 
little  face  which  reminded  him  of  his  fiiend  Maverick, 
he  felt  his  heart  stirred  within  him,  and  in  his  grave  way 
dropped  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  while  he  took  both 
her  hands  in  his. 

"This,  then,  is  little  Adaly?" 

"  Ha !  ha  ! "  laughed  Adele,  merrily,  and,  turning 
round  to  her  new-found  friends,  says,  —  "  My  new  papa 
calls  me  Adaly  !  " 

The  straightforward  parson  was,  indeed,  as  inaccessi 
ble  to  French  words  as  to  French  principles.  Adele  had 


102  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

somehow  a  smack  in  it  of  the  Gallic  Pandemonium-. 
Adaly,  to  his  ear,  was  a  far  honester  sound. 

And  the  child  seemed  to  fancy  it,  —  whether  for  its 
novelty,  or  the  kindliness  that  beamed  on  her  from  the 
gravest  face  she  had  ever  seen,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

"  Call  me  Adaly,  and  I  will  call  you  New  Papa,"  said 
she. 

And  though  the  parson  was  not  a  bargaining  man, 
every  impulse  of  his  heart  went  to  confirm  this  ar 
rangement.  It  was  flattering  to  his  self-love,  if  not  to 
his  principles,  to  have  apparent  sanction  to  his  preju 
dices  against  French  forms  of  speech ;  and  the  "  New 
Papa "  on  the  lips  of  this  young  girl  touched  him  to 
the  quick. 

From  all  this  it  chanced  that  the  best  possible  under 
standing  was  speedily  established  between  the  Doctor 
and  his  little  ward  from  beyond  the  seas.  For  an  hour 
after  his  arrival,  the  little  creature  hung  upon  his  chair, 
asking  questions  about  her  new  home,  about  the  schools, 
about  her  playmates,  patting  the  great  hand  of  the 
Doctor  with  her  little  fingers,  and  reminding  him  sadly 
of  days  utterly  gone. 

Mrs.  Brindlock,  with  her  woman's  curiosity,  seizes  an 
occasion,  before  they  leave,  to  say  privately  to  the  Doc 
tor,  — 

"  Benjamin,  the  child  must  have  a  strange  mother  to 
allow  this  long  separation,  and  the  little  creature  so  lov 
ing  as  she  is." 

"  It  would  be  strange  enough  for  any  but  a  French 
woman,"  said  he. 


THE   ARRIVAL.  103 

"But  Adc-le  is  full  of  talk  about  her  father  and  her 
godmother  ;  yet  she  can  tell  me  scarce  anything  of  her 
mother.  There  's  a  mystery  about  it,  Benjamin." 

"  There 's  a  mystery  in  all  our  lives,  Mabel,  and  will 
be  until  the  last  day  shall  come." 

The  parson  said  this  with  extreme  gravity,  and  then 
added,  —  "He  has  written  me  regarding  it, —  a  very  un 
fortunate  marriage,  I  fear.  Only  this  much  he  has  been 
disposed  to  communicate ;  and  for  myself,  I  am  only 
concerned  to  redeem  his  little  girl  from  gross  worldly 
attachments  and  to  lead  her  to  the  truths  which  take 
hold  upon  heaven." 

The  next  day  the  Doctor  set  off  homeward  upon  the 
magnificent  new  steamboat  Victory,  which,  with  two 
wonderful  smoke -pipes,  was  then  plying  through  the 
Sound  and  up  the  Connecticut  Kiver.  It  was  an  ob 
ject  of  almost  as  much  interest  to  the  parson  as  to  his 
little  companion.  A  sober  costume  had  now  replaced 
the  coquettish  one  with  its  furbelows,  which  Adele  had 
worn  in  the  city  ;  but  there  was  a  bright  lining  to  her 
little  hat  that  made  her  brown  face  more  piquant  than 
ever.  And  as  she  inclined  her  head  jauntily  to  this 
side  or  that,  in  order  to  a  better  listening  to  the  old 
gentleman's  somewhat  tedious  explanations,  or  with  a 
saucy  smile  cut  him  short  in  the  midst  of  them,  the 
parson  felt  his  heart  warming  more  and  more  toward 
this  poor  child  of  heathen  France.  Nay,  he  felt  almost 
tempted  to  lay  his  lips  to  the  little  white  ears  that 
peeped  forth  from  the  masses  of  dark  hair  and  seemed 
fairly  to  quiver  with  the  eagerness  of  their  listening. 


104  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

With  daylight  of  next  morning  came  sight  of  the 
rambling  old  towns  that  lay  at  the  river's  mouth,  — 
being  little  more  than  patches  of  gray  and  white, 
strewed  over  an  almost  treeless  country,  with  some 
central  spire  rising  above  them.  Then  came  great 
stretches  of  open  pasture,  scattered  over  with  huge 
gray  rocks,  amid  which  little  flocks  of  sheep  were  ram 
bling  ;  or  some  herd  of  young  cattle,  startled  by  the 
splashing  of  the  paddles,  and  the  great  plumes  of 
smoke,  tossed  their  tails  in  the  air,  and  galloped  away 
in  a  fright,  —  at  which  Adele  clapped  her  hands,  and 
broke  into  a  laugh  that  was  as  cheery  as  the  new  dawn. 
Next  came  low,  flat  meadows  of  sedge,  over  which  the 
tide  oozed  slowly,  and  where  flocks  of  wild  ducks, 
scared  from  their  feeding-ground,  rose  by  scores,  and 
went  flapping  off  seaward  in  long,  black  lines.  And 
from  between  the  hills  on  either  side  came  glimpses  of 
swamp  woodland,  in  the  midst  of  which  some  maple, 
earlier  than  its  green  fellowrs,  had  taken  a  tinge  of 
orange,  and  flamed  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  traveller 
with  a  gorgeousness  she  had  never  seen  in  the  woods 
of  Provence.  Then  came  towns  nestling  under  bluffs 
of  red  quarry-stones,  towns  upon  wooded  plains,  —  all 
with  a  white  newness  about  them  ;  and  a  brig,  with  horses 
on  its  deck,  piled  over  with  bales  of  hay,  comes  drifting 
lazily  down  with  the  tide,  to  catch  an  offing  for  the 
West  Indies ;  and  queer-shaped  flat-boats,  propelled  by 
broad-bladed  oars,  surge  slowly  athwart  the  stream, 
ferrying  over  some  traveller,  or  some  fish- peddler  bound 
to  the  "  P'int "  for  "  sea-food." 


THE  ARRIVAL.  105 

Toward  noon  the  travelers  land  at  a  shambling  dock 
that  juts  into  the  river,  from  which  point  they  are  to 
make  their  way.  in  such  country  vehicle  as  the  little 
village  will  supply,  across  to  Ashfield.  And  when  they 
are  fairly  seated  within,  the  parson,  judging  that  ac 
quaintance  has  ripened  sufficiently  to  be  put  to  serious 
uses,  says,  with  more  than  usual  gravity,  — 

I  trust  Adaly,  that  you  are  grateful  to  God  for  hav 
ing  protected  you  from  all  the  dangers  of  the  deep." 

"  Do  you  think  there  was  much  danger,  New  Papa?  " 

"  There  's  always  danger,"  said  the  parson,  gravely. 
"The  Victory  might  have  been  blown  in  pieces  last 
night,  and  we  all  been  killed,  Adaly." 

"  Oh,  terrible  !  "  says  Adele.  "And  did  such  a  thing 
ever  really  happen  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  New  Papa,  please  ; "  and  she 
put  her  little  hand  in  his. 

"  Not  now,  Adaly,  —  not  now.  I  want  to  know  if 
you  have  been  taught  about  God,  in  your  old  home." 

"  Oh,  the  good  God  !  To  be  sure  I  have,  over  and 
over  and  over  ; "  and  she  made  a  little  piquant  gesture, 
as  if  the  teaching  had  been  sometimes  wearisome. 

This  gayety  of  speech  on  such  a  theme  was  painful  to 
the  Doctor. 

"  And  have  you  been  taught  to  pray,  Adaly  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  Listen  now.  Shall  I  tell  you  one  of  my 
prayers.  New  Papa  ?  Voyons,  how  is  it " 

"  Never  mind, —  never  mind,  Adaly ;  not  here,  not  here, 
We  are  taught  to  enter  into  our  closets  when  we  pray." 


106  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"Closets?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  —  to  be  by  ourselves,  and  to  be 
solemn." 

"I  don't  like  solemn  people  much,"  said  Adele,  in  a 
quiet  tone. 

"But  do  you  love  God,  my  child  ?  " 

"Love  Him?  To  be  sure  I  do;"  and  after  a  little 
pause,  —  "  All  good  children  love  Him  ;  and  I  'm  good, 
you  know,  New  Papa,  don't  you  ? "  —  and  she  turned 
her  eyes  up  toward  him  with  a  half-coaxing,  half-mis 
chievous  look  that  came  near  to  drive  away  all  his 
solemnity. 

"  Ah,  Adaly  !  Adaly  !  we  are  all  wicked  !  "  said  he. 

Adele  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  You,  too !  Yet  papa  told  me  you  were  so  good ! 
Ah,  you  are  telling  me  now  a  little  —  what  you  call  — 
lie  !  a'n't  you,  New  Papa  ?  " 

And  she  looked  at  him  with  such  a  frank,  arch 
smile,  —  so  like  the  memory  he  cherished  of  the  college- 
boy,  Maverick,  —  that  he  could  argue  the  matter  no 
further,  but  only  patted  her  little  hand,  as  it  lay  upon 
the  cushion  of  the  carriage,  as  much  as  to  say,  —  "  Poor 
thing  !  poor  thing  !  " 

Upon  this,  he  fell  away  into  a  train  of  grave  reflec 
tions  on  the  method  which  it  would  be  best  to  pursue  in 
bringing  this  little  benighted  wanderer  into  the  fold  of 
the  faithful. 

And  he  was  still  musing  thus,  when  suddenly  the 
spire  of  Ash  field  broke  upon  the  view. 

"  There  it  is,  Adaly  !     There  is  to  be  your  new  home  !  * 


ADELE  MEETS  REUBEN.  107 

"  Where  ?  where  ?  "  says  Adele,  eagerly. 

And  straightway  she  is  all  aglow  with  excitement. 
Her  swift  questions  patter  on  the  ears  of  the  old  gen 
tleman  thick  as  rain-drops.  She  looks  at  the  houses, 
the  hills,  the  trees,  the  face  of  every  passer-by,  —  won 
dering  how  she  shall  like  them  all ;  fashioning  to  her 
self  some  image  of  the  boy  Reuben  and  of  the  Aunt 
Eliza  who  are  to  meet  her  ;  yet,  through  all  the  torrent 
of  her  vexed  fancies,  carrying  a  great  glow  of  hope,  and 
entering,  with  all  her  fresh,  girlish  enthusiasms  un 
checked,  upon  that  new  phase  of  life,  so  widely  different 
from  any  thing  she  has  yet  experienced,  under  the 
grave  atmosphere  of  a  New  England  parsonage. 


XX. 

Adele  Meets  Reiibcn. 

ISS  JOHNS  meets  the  new-comer  with  as  large 
a  share  of  kindness  as  she  can  force  into  her 
manner;  but  her  welcome  lacks,  somehow,  the  sympa 
thetic  glow  to  which  Adele  has  been  used ;  it  has  not 
even  the  spontaneity  and  heartiness  which  had  belonged 
to  the  greeting  of  that  worldly  woman,  Mrs.  Brindlock. 
And  as  the  wondering  little  stranger  passes  up  the 
path,  and  into  the  door  of  the  parsonage,  with  her  hand 
in  that  of  the  spinster,  she  cannot  help  contrasting  the 
one  cold  kiss  of  the  tall  lady  in  black  with  the  shower 
of  warm  ones  which  her  old  godmother  had  bestowed 


io8  DOCTOR    JOHNS, 

at  parting.  Yet  in  the  eye  of  the  Doctor  sister  Eliza 
had  hardly  ever  worn  a  more  beaming  look,  and  he  was 
duly  grateful  for  the  strong  interest  which  she  evidently 
showed  in  the  child  of  his  poor  friend.  She  had 
equipped  herself  indeed  in  her  best  silk  and  with  her 
most  elaborate  toilet,  and  had  exhausted  all  her  strat 
egy, —  whether  in  respect  of  dress,  of  decorations  for 
the  chamber,  or  of  the  profuse  supper  which  was  in 
course  of  preparation,  —  to  make  a  profound  and  favor 
able  impression  upon  the  heart  of  the  stranger. 

The  spinster  was  not  a  little  mortified  at  her  evident 
want  of  success,  most  notably  in  respect  to  the  elabo 
rate  arrangements  of  the  chamber  of  the  young  guest, 
who  seemed  to  regard  the  dainty  hangings  of  the  little 
bed,  and  the  scattered  ornaments,  as  matters  of  course  ; 
but  making  her  way  to  the  window  which  commanded 
a  view  of  both  garden  and  orchard,  Adele  clapped  her 
hands  with  glee  at  sight  of  the  naming  hollyhocks  and 
the  trees  laden  with  golden  pippins.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
pretty  scene  :  silvery  traces  of  the  brook  sparkled  in  the 
green  meadow  below  the  orchard,  and  the  hills  be}rond 
were  checkered  by  the  fields  of  buckwheat  in  broad 
patches  of  white  bloom,  and  these  again  were  skirted 
by  masses  of  luxuriant  wood  that  crowned  all  the 
heights.  To  the  eye  of  Adele,  used  only  to  the  bare 
hill-sides  and  scanty  olive-orchards  of  Marseilles,  the 
view  was  marvelously  fair. 

"  Tiens !  there  are  chickens  and  doves,"  said  she, 
still  gazing  eagerly  out ;  "  oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  love  this 
new  home ! " 


ADELE  MEETS  REUBEN.  109 

And  thus  saving,  she  tripped  back  from  the  window 
to  where  Miss  Eliza  was  admiringly  intent  upon  the  un 
packing  and  arranging  of  the  little  wardrobe  of  her 
guest.  Adele,  in  the  flush  of  her  joyful  expectations 
from  the  scene  that  had  burst  upon  her  out  of  doors, 
now  prattled  more  freely  with  the  spinster,  —  tossing 
out  the  folds  of  her  dresses,  as  they  successively  came 
to  light,  with  her  dainty  fingers,  and  giving  some  quick, 
girlish  judgment  upon  each. 

"This,  godmother  gave  me,  dear,  good  soul!  —  and 
she  sewed  this  bow  upon  it ;  is  n't  it  coquette  ?  And 
there  's  the  white  muslin,  —  oh,  how  crushed  !  —  that 
was  for  my  church-dress,  first  communion,  you  know  ; 
but  papa  said,  '  Better  wait/  —  so  I  never  wore  it." 

Thus  woman  and  child  grew  into  easy  acquaintance 
over  the  great  trunk  of  Adele  :  the  latter  plunging  her 
little  hands  among  the  silken  folds  of  dress  after  dress 
with  the  careless  air  of  one  whose  every  wish  had  been 
petted  ;  and  the  spinster  forecasting  the  pride  she 
would  herself  take  in  accompanying  this  little  sprite,  in 
these  French  robes,  to  the  house  of  her  good  friends, 
the  Hapgoods,  or  in  exciting  the  wonderment  of  those 
most  excellent  people,  the  Tourtelots. 

Meantime  Reuben,  with  a  resolute  show  of  boyish  in 
difference,  has  been  straying  off  with  Phil  Elderkin, 
although  he  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage  at  the 
door.  Later  he  makes  his  way  into  the  study,  where 
the  Doctor,  after  giving  him  kindly  reproof  for  not 
being  at  home  to  welcome  them,  urges  upon  him  the 
duty  of  kindness  to  the  young  stranger  who  has  come 


i  io  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

to  make  her  home  with  them,  and  trusts  that  Provi 
dence  may  overrule  her  presence  there  to  the  improve 
ment  and  blessing  of  both.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  little  lecture 
which  the  good,  but  prosy  Doctor  pronounces  to  the 
boy ;  from  which  he  slipping  away,  so  soon  as  a  good 
gap  occurs  in  the  discourse,  strolls  with  a  jaunty  affec 
tation  of  carelessness  into  the  parlor.  His  Aunt  Eliza 
is  there  now,  seated  at  the  table,  and  Adele  standing  by 
the  hearth,  on  which  a  fire  has  just  been  kindled.  She 
gives  a  quick,  eager  look  at  him,  under  which  his  as 
sumed  carelessness  vanishes  in  an  instant. 

"This  is  Adele,  our  little  French  guest,  Reuben." 

The  lad  throws  a  quick,  searching  glance  upon  her, 
but  is  abashed  by  the  look  of  half-confidence  and  half- 
merriment  that  he  sees  twinkling  in  her  eye.  The 
boy's  awkwardness  seems  to  infect  her,  too,  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  should  think,  Reuben,  you  would  welcome  Adele 
to  the  parsonage,"  said  the  spinster. 

And  Reuben,  glancing  again  from  under  his  brow, 
sidles  along  the  table,  with  far  less  of  ease  than  he  had 
worn  when  he  came  whistling  through  the  hall,  —  sidles 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  she,  with  a  coy  approach  that 
seems  to  be  full  of  doubt,  meets  him  with  a  little  furtive 
hand- shake.  Then  he,  retiring  a  step,  leans  with  one 
elbow  on  the  friendly  table,  eying  her  curiously,  and 
more  boldly  when  he  discovers  that  her  look  is  down 
cast  and  that  she  seems  to  be  warming  her  feet  at  the 
blaze. 

Miss  Johns  has  watched  narrowly  this  approach  of 


AfJELE  MEETS  REUBEN.  in 

her  two  proteges,  with  an  interest  quite  uncommon  to 
her  ;  and  nowr,  with  a  policy  that  would  have  honored  a 
more  adroit  tactician,  she  slips  quietly  from  the  room. 

Reuben  feels  freer  at  this,  knowing  that  the  gray  eye 
is  not  upon  the  watch  ;  Adele  too,  perhaps  ;  at  any  rate, 
she  lifts  her  face  with  a  look  that  inyites  Reuben  to 
speech. 

"  You  came  in  a  ship,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  big,  big  ship  ! " 

"I  should  like  to  sail  in  a  ship,"  said  Reuben  ;  "  did 
you  like  it?" 

"Not  yery  much,"  said  Adele,  "the  deck  was  so  slip 
pery,  and  the  waves  were  so  high,  oh,  so  high  ! "  —  and 
the  little  maid  makes  an  explanatory  gesture  with  her 
two  hands,  the  like  of  which  for  grace  and  expressive 
ness  Reuben  had  certainly  never  seen  in  any  girl  of 
Ashfield.  His  eyes  twinkled  at  it. 

"  Were  you  afraid  ?  "  said  he. 

"Oh,  not  much." 

"Because  you  know,"  said  Reuben,  consolingly,  "if 
the  ship  had  sunk,  you  could  have  come  on  shore  in 
the  small  boats."  He  saw  a  merry  laugh  of  wonder 
ment  threatening  in  her  face,  and  continued  authorita 
tively,  "Nat  Boody  has  been  in  a  sloop,  and  he  says 
they  always  carry  small  boats  to  pick  up  people  when 
the  big  ships  go  down." 

Adele  laughed  outright.  "  But  how  would  they  carry 
the  bread,  and  the  stove,  and  the  water,  and  the  anchor, 
and  all  the  things?  Besides,  the  great  waves  would 
knock  a  small  boat  in  pieces." 


112  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Reuben  felt  a  humiliating  sense  of  being  no  match 
for  the  little  stranger  on  sea  topics,  so  he  changed  the 
theme. 

"  Are  you  going  tcfMiss  Onthank's  ?  " 

"  Tfiat  's  a  funny  name,"  says  Adele  ;  "that  's  the 
school,  is  n't  it  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  '11  go  there  :  you  go, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Eeuben,  "  but  I  don't  think  I  '11  go  very 
long." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  says  Adele. 

"I  'm  getting  too  big  to  go  to  a  girls'  school,"  said 
Reuben. 

"  Oh !  "  and  there  was  a  little  playful  malice  in  the 
girl's  observation  that  piqued  the  boy. 

"  Do  the  scholars  like  her  ?  "  continued  Adele. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Reuben;  "but  she  hung  up  a 
little  girl  about  as  big  as  you,  once,  upon  a  nail  in  a 
corner  of  the  school-room." 

"  Quelle  bete  !  "  exclaimed  Adele. 

"  That 's  French,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  it  means  she  's  a  bad  woman  to  do  such 
things." 

In  this  way  they  prattled  on,  and  grew  into  a  certain 
familiarity  ;  the  boy  entertaining  an  immense  respect 
for  her  French,  and  for  her  knowledge  of  the  sea  and 
ships ;  but  stubbornly  determined  to  maintain  the 
superiority  which  he  thought  justly  to  belong  to  his 
superior  age  and  sex. 

That  evening,  after  the  little  people  were  asleep,  the 
spinster  and  the  Doctor  conferred  together  in  regard  to 


AD&LE  MEETS  REUBEN.  113 

Adele.  It  was  agreed  between  them  that  she  should 
enter  at  once  upon  her  school  duties,  and  that  particular 
inquiry  concerning  her  religious  beliefs,  or  particular 
instruction  on  that  score,  —  further  than  what  belonged 
to  the  judicious  system  of  Miss  Onthank,  —  should  be 
deferred  for  the  present.  At  the  same  time  the  Doctor 
enjoined  upon  his  sister  the  propriety  of  commencing 
upon  the  next  Saturday  evening  the  usual  instructions 
in  the  Shorter  Catechism,  and  of  insisting  upon  punctual 
attendance  upon  the  family  devotions. 

The  spinster  had  been  so  captivated  by  a  certain  air 
of  modish  elegance  in  Adele  as  to  lead  her  almost  to 
forget  the  weightier  obligations  of  her  Christian  duty 
toward  her.  She  conceived  that  she  would  find  in  her 
a  means  of  recovering  some  influence  over  Reuben,  — 
never  doubting  that  the  boy  would  be  attracted  by  her 
frolicsome  humor,  and  would  be  eager  for  her  compan 
ionship.  It  was  possible,  moreover,  that  there  might  be 
some  appeal  to  the  boy's  jealousies,  when  he  found  the 
favors  which  he  had  spurned  were  lavished  upon  Adele. 
It  was  therefore  in  the  best  of  temper  and  with  the 
airiest  of  hopes  (though  not  altogether  spiritual  ones) 
that  Miss  Eliza  conducted  the  discussion  with  the 
Doctor.  In  two  things  only  they  had  differed,  and  in 
this  each  had  gained  and  each  lost  a  point.  The 
Doctor  utterly  refused  to  conform  his  pronunciation  to 
the  rigors  which  Miss  Eliza  prescribed ;  for  him  Adele 
should  be  always  and  only  Adaly.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  parson's  exactions  in  regard  to  sundry  modifications 
of  the  little  girl's  dress  miscarried ;  the  spinster  insisted 
8 


114  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

upon  all  the  furbelows  as  they  had  come  from  the  hands 
of  the  French  modiste;  and  in  this  she  left  the  field 
with  flying  colors. 

The  next  day  Doctor  Johns  wrote  to  his  friend 
Maverick,  announcing  the  safe  arrival  of  his  child  at 
Ashfield,  and  spoke  in  terms  which  were  warm  for  him, 
of  the  interest  which  both  his  sister  and  himself  felt  in 
her  welfare.  "He  was  pained,"  he  said,  "to  perceive 
that  she  spoke  almost  with  gayety  of  serious  things, 
and  feared  greatly  that  her  keen  relish  for  the  beauties 
and  delights  of  this  sinful  world,  and  her  exuberant  en 
joyment  of  mere  temporal  blessings,  would  make  it 
hard  to  wean  her  from  them  and  to  center  her  desires 
upon  the  eternal  world." 

XXI. 

Miss  Onthank. 

such  event  could  take  place  in  Ashfield  as  the 
arrival  of  this  young  stranger  at  the  parsonage, 
without  exciting  a  world  of  talk  up  and  down  the  street. 
There  were  stories  that  she  came  of  a  vile  Popish  family, 
and  there  were  those  who  gravely  believed  that  the  poor 
little  creature  had  made  only  a  hair-breadth  escape  from 
the  thongs  of  the  Inquisition.  There  were  few  even  of 
those  who  knew  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
gentleman,  now  domiciled  in  France,  and  an  old  friend 
of  the  Doctor's,  who  did  not  look  upon  her  with  a  tender 
interest,  as  one  miraculously  snatched  by  the  hands  of 


MISS   ONTHAXK.  115 

the  good  Doctor  from  the  snares  of  perdition.  The  gay 
trappings  of  silks  and  ribbons  in  which  she  paced  up  the 
aisle  of  the  meeting-house  upon  her  first  Sunday,  under 
the  patronizing  eye  of  the  stern  spinster,  were  looked 
upon  by  the  more  elderly  worshipers  —  most  of  all  by 
the  mothers  of  young  daughters  —  as  the  badges  of  the 
Woman  of  Babylon,  and  as  fit  belongings  to  those  ac 
customed  to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  wickedness.  Even 
Dame  Tourtelot,  in  whose  pew  the  face  of  Miss  Alrnira 
waxes  yellow  between  two  great  saffron  bows,  commiser 
ates  the  poor  heathen  child  who  has  been  decked  like  a 
lamb  for  the  sacrifice.  "I  wonder  Miss  Eliza  don't 
pull  off  them  ribbons  from  the  little  minx,"  said  she,  as 
she  marched  home  in  the  '•'intermission,"  locked  coin- 
mandingly  to  the  arm  of  the  Deacon. 

"  Wai.il,  I  s'pose  they  're  paid  for,"  returns  the  Deacon. 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it,  Tourtelot?" 

"  Waal,  Huldy,  we  do  pootty  much  all  we  can  for  Al- 
miry  in  that  line  :  this  'ere  Maverick,  I  guess,  doos  the 
same.  What 's  the  odds,  arter  all  ?  " 

"  Odds  enough,  Tourtelot,"  as  the  poor  man  found  be 
fore  bedtime  :  he  had  no  flip. 

The  Elderkins,  however,  were  more  considerate.  Very 
early  after  her  arrival,  Adele  had  found  her  way  to  their 
homestead,  under  the  guidance  of  Miss  Eliza,  and  by  her 
frank,  demonstrative  manner  had  established  herself  at 
once  in  the  affections  of  the  whole  family.  The  Squire, 
indeed,  had  rallied  the  parson  not  a  little,  in  his  boister 
ous,  hearty  fashion,  upon  his  introduction  of  such  a  dan 
gerous  young  Jesuit  into  so  orthodox  a  parish. 


u6  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

At  all  which,  so  seriously  uttered  as  to  take  the  Doc 
tor  fairly  aback,  good  Mrs.  Elderkin  shook  her  finger 
warningly  at  the  head  of  the  Squire,  and  said,  "  Now, 
for  shame,  Giles ! " 

Good  Mrs.  Elderkin  was,  indeed,  the  pattern  woman 
of  the  parish  in  all  charitable  deeds ;  not  only  outside, 
(where  so  many  charitable  natures  find  their  limits,)  but 
in-doors.  With  gentle  speech  and  gentle  manner,  she 
gave,  may  be,  her  occasional  closet-counsel  to  the  Squire  ; 
but  most  times  her  efforts  to  win  him  to  a  more  serious 
habit  of  thought  are  covered  under  the  shape  of  some 
charming  plea  for  a  kindness  to  herself  or  the  "  dear 
girls,"  which  she  knows  that  he  will  not  have  the  hardi 
hood  to  resist, 

No  wonder  that  the  little  half-orphaned  creature, 
Adele,  with  her  explosive  warmth  of  heart,  is  kindly  re 
ceived  among  the  Elderkins.  Phil  was  some  three  years 
her  senior,  a  ruddy-faced,  open-hearted  fellow,  who  had 
been  well-nurtured,  like  his  two  elder  brothers,  but  in 
whom  a  certain  waywardness  just  now  appearing  was  at 
tributed  very  much,  by  the  closely  observing  mother,  to 
the  influence  of  that  interesting,  but  mischievous  boy, 
Reuben.  Phil  was  the  superior  in  age,  indeed,  and  in 
muscle,  (as  we  may  find  proof,)  but  in  nerve-power  the 
more  delicate-featured  boy  of  the  parson  outranked  him. 

Rose  Elderkin  was  a  year  }Tounger  than  the  French 
stranger,  and  a  marvelously  fair  type  of  New  England 
girl-beauty  :  light  brown  hair  hi  unwieldy  masses  ;  skin 
wonderfully  clear  and  transparent,  and  that  flushed  at  a 
rebuke,  or  a  run  down  the  village  street,  till  her  cheeks 


MISS   OX  THANK.  117 

blazed  with  scarlet ;  a  lip  delicately  thin,  but  blood-red, 
and  exquisitely  cut  ;  a  great  hazel  eye,  that  in  her  mo 
ments  of  glee,  or  any  occasional  excitement,  fairly  danced 
and  sparkled  with  a  kind  of  insane  merriment,  and  at 
other  times  took  on  a  demure  and  pensive  look,  which 
to  future  wooers  might  possibly  prove  the  more  danger 
ous  of  the  two.  Adele  thinks  her  very  charming  ;  Reu 
ben  is  disposed  to  rank  her  —  whatever  Phil  may  think 
or  say  —  far  above  Suke  Boody.  And  in  his  reading  of 
the  delightful  "Children  of  the  Abbey,"  which  he  has 
stolen,  (by  fayor  of  Phil,  who  owns  the  book,)  he  has 
thought  of  Rose  when  Amanda  first  appeared  ;  and  when 
the  diyiue  Amanda  is  in  tears,  he  has  thought  of  Rose  ; 
and  when  Amanda  smiles,  with  Mortimer  kneeling  at 
her  feet,  he  has  still  thought  of  Rose. 

These  four,  Adele,  Phil,  Rose,  and  Reuben,  are  fel 
low-attendants  at  the  school  of  the  excellent  Miss  Betsy 
Onthank,  who  is  a  type  of  a  schoolmistress  which  is 
found  no  longer  :  grave,  stately,  with  two  great  moppets 
of  hair  on  either  side  her  brow,  (as  in  the  old  engrav 
ings  of  Louis  Philippe's  good  queen  Amelia,)  very  res 
olute,  very  learned  in  the  boundaries  of  all  Christian 
and  heathen  countries,  patient  to  a  fault,  with  a  marvel 
ous  capacity  for  pointing  out  with  her  bodkin  every  let 
ter  to  some  wee  thing  at  its  first  stage  of  spelling,  and 
yet  keeping  an  eye  upon  all  the  school-room  ;  reading  a 
chapter  from  the  Bible,  and  saying  a  prayer  each  morn 
ing  upon  her  bended  knees,  —  the  little  ones  all  kneel 
ing  in  concert,  —  with  an  air  that  would  have  adorned 
the  most  stately  prioress  of  a  convent  ;  using  her  red 


u8  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ferule  betimes  on  little,  mischievous,  smarting  hands, 
yet  not  over- severe,  and  kind  beneath  all  her  gravity. 
She  regards  Adele  with  a  peculiar  tenderness,  and  hopes 
to  make  herself  the  humble  and  unworthy  instrument  of 
redeeming  her  from  the  wicked  estate  in  which  she  has 
been  reared. 

Phil  and  Eeuben,  being  the  oldest  boys  of  the  school, 
resent  the  indignity  of  being  still  subject  to  woman  rule 
by  a  concerted  series  of  rebellious  outbreaks.  Some  six 
or  eight  months  after  the  arrival  of  Adele  upon  the  scene, 
this  rebel  attitude  culminates  in  an  incident  that  occa 
sions  a  change  of  programme.  The  rebels  on  their  way 
to  school  espy  a  few  clam-shells  before  some  huckster's 
door,  and,  putting  two  or  three  in  their  pockets,  seize 
the  opportunity  when  the  good  lady's  eyes  are  closed  in 
the  morning  prayer  to  send  two  or  three  scaling  about 
the  room,  which  fall  with  a  clatter  among  the  startled 
little  ones.  One,  aimed  more  justly  by  Reuben,  strikes 
the  grave  mistress  full  upon  the  forehead,  and  leaves  a 
red  cut  from  which  one  or  two  beads  of  blood  trickle 
down. 

Adele,  who  has  not  learned  yet  that  obstinate  closing 
of  the  eyes  which  most  of  the  scholars  have  been  taught, 
and  to  whom  the  sight  recalls  the  painted  heads  of  mar 
tyrs  in  an  old  church  at  Marseilles,  gives  a  little  hysteric 
scream.  But  the  mistress,  with  face  unchanged  and 
voice  uplifted  and  unmoved,  completes  her  religious 
duty. 

The  whole  school  is  horrified,  on  rising  from  their 
knees,  at  sight  of  the  old  lady's  bleeding  head.  The 


MISS   OXTHANK.  119 

mistress  wipes  her  forehead  calmly,  and,  picking  up  the 
shell  at  her  feet,  says,  "  Who  threw  this  ?  " 

There  is  silence  in  the  room. 

"Adele,"  she  continues,  "I  heard  you  scream,  child  ; 
do  you  know  who  threw  this  ?  " 

Adele  gives  a  quick,  inquiring  glance  at  Reuben, 
whose  face  is  imperturbable,  rallies  her  courage  for  a 
struggle  against  the  will  of  the  mistress,  and  then  bursts 
into  tears. 

Reuben  cannot  stand  this. 

"  7  threw  it,  marrn,"  says  he,  with  a  great  tremor  in 
his  voice. 

The  mistress  beckons  him  to  her,  and,  as  he  walks 
thither,  motions  to  a  bench  near  her,  and  says  grave- 

iy,- 

"  Sit  by  me,  Reuben." 

There  he  keeps  till  school-hours  are  over,  wondering 
what  shape  the  punishment  will  take.  At  last,  when  all 
are  gone,  the  mistress  leads  him  into  her  private  closet, 
and  says  solemnly,  — 

"Reuben,  this  is  a  crime  against  God.  I  forgive 
you  ;  I  hope  He  may  ; "  and  she  bids  him  kneel  beside 
her,  while  she  prays  in  a  way  that  makes  the  tears  start 
to  the  eyes  of  the  boy. 

Then,  home,  —  she  walking  by  his  side,  and  leading 
him  straight  into  the  study  of  the  grave  Doctor,  to 
whom  she  unfolds  the  story,  begging  him  not  to  punish 
the  lad,  believing  that  he  is  penitent.  And  the  meek 
ness  and  kindliness  of  the  good  woman  make  a  Chris 
tian  picture  for  the  mind  of  Reuben,  in  sad  contrast 


120  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

with  the  prim  austerity  of  Aunt  Eliza,  —  a  picture  that 
he  never  loses,  —  that  keeps  him  meekly  obedient  for 
the  rest  of  the  quarter  ;  after  which,  by  the  advice  of 
Miss  Onthank,  both  Phil  and  Eeuben  are  transferred  to 
the  boys'  academy  upon  the  Common. 


xxn. 

Religious    Teaching. 

MEANTIME,  Adcle  is  making  friends  in  Ashfield 
and  in  the  parsonage.  The  irrepressible  buoy 
ancy  of  her  character  cannot  be  kept  under  even  by  the 
severity  of  conduct  which  belongs  to  the  home  of  the 
Doctor.  If  she  yields  rigid  obedience  to  all  the  laws  of 
the  household,  as  she  is  taught  to  do,  her  vivacity 
sparkles  all  the  more  in  those  short  intervals  of  time 
when  the  laws  are  silent.  There  is  something  in  this 
beaming  mirth  of  hers  which  the  Doctor  loves,  though 
he  struggles  against  the  love.  He  shuts  his  door  fast, 
that  the  snatches  of  some  profane  song  from  her  little 
lips  (with  him  all  French  songs  are  profane)  may  not 
come  in  to  disturb  him  ;  but  as  her  voice  rises  cheerily, 
higher  and  higher,  in  the  summer  dusk,  he  catches  him 
self  lending  a  profane  ear  ;  the  blitheness,  the  sweet 
ness,  the  mellowness  of  her  tones  win  upon  his  dreary 
solitude  ;  there  is  something  softer  in  them  than  in  the 
measured  vocables  of  sister  Eliza ;  it  brings  a  souvenir 
of  the  girlish  Kachel,  and  his  memory  floats  back  upon 


RELIGIOUS   TEACHING.  121 

the  strains  of  the  new  singer,  to  the  days  when  that 
dear  voice  filled  his  heart;  and  he  thinks  —  thanking 
Adaly  for  the  thought  —  she  is  singing  with  the  angels 
now  ! 

But  the  spinster,  who  has  no  ear  for  music,  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  carol,  will  cry  out  in  sharp  tones  from 
her  chamber,  "Adele,  Adele,  not  so  loud,  child!  you 
will  disturb  the  Doctor  !  " 

Even  then  Adele  has  her  resource  in  the  garden  and 
the  orchard,  where  she  never  tires  of  wandering  up  and 
down,  —  and  never  wandering  there  but  some  fragment 
of  a  song  breaks  from  her  lips. 

From  time  to  time  the  Doctor  summons  her  to  his 
study  to  have  serious  talk  with  her.  She  has,  indeed, 
shared  the  Saturday-night  instruction  in  the  Catechism, 
in  company  with  Reuben,  and  being  quick  at  words,  no 
matter  how  long  they  may  be,  she  has  learned  it  all ; 
and  Reuben  and  she  dash  through  "what  is  required  " 
and  "  what  is  forbidden  "  and  "  the  reasons  annexed  " 
like  a  pair  of  prancing  horses,  kept  diligently  in  hand 
by  that  excellent  whip,  Miss  Johns.  But  the  study 
has  not  wrought  that  gravity  in  the  mind  of  the  child 
which  the  good  parson  had  hoped  for ;  he  therefore,  as 
we  have  said,  summons  her  from  time  to  time  to  his 
sfeidy. 

And  Adele  comes,  always  at  the  first  summons,  with 
a  tripping  step,  and  with  a  little  coquettish  adjustment 
of  her  dress  and  hah*,  flings  herself  into  the  big  chair 
before  him,  — 

"  Now.  Xew  Papa,  here  I  am  !  " 


122  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  Ah,  Adaly !  I  wish,  child,  that  you  could  be  more 
serious  than  you  are." 

"  Serious  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  —  (she  sees  a  look  of  pain  on  the 
face  of  the  Doctor)  —  "but  I  will  be,  — I  am  ;"  and  with 
great  effort  she  throws  a  most  unnatural  expression  of 
repose  into  her  face. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Adaly  ;  but  this  is  not  the  se 
riousness  I  want  to  find  in  you.  I  want  you  to  feel,  my 
child,  that  you  are  walking  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice, 
—  that  your  heart  is  desperately  wicked." 

"Oh,  no,  New  Papa  !  you  don't  think  I'm  desperately 
wicked  ?  "  —  and  she  says  it  with  a  charming  eagerness 
of  manner. 

"Yes,  desperately  wicked,  Adaly,  — leaning  to  the 
things  of  this  world,  and  not  fastening  your  affections 
on  things  above,  on  the  realities  beyond  the  grave." 

"But  all  that  is  so  far  away,  New  Papa !  " 

"Not  so  far  as  you  think,  child  ;  they  may  come 
to-day." 

Adele  is  sobered  in  earnest  now,  and  tosses  her  little 
feet  back  and  forth,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension. 

The  Doctor  continues, 

"  To-day,  if  ye  will  hear  his  voice,  harden  not  your 
hearts  ;  "  and  the  sentiment  and  utterance  are  so  like  to 
the  usual  ones  of  the  pulpit,  that  Adele  takes  courage 
again. 

The  little  girl  has  a  profound  respect  for  the  Doctor  ; 
his  calmness,  his  equanimity,  his  persistent  zeal  in  his 
work,  would  alone  provoke  it.  She  sees,  furthermore, 
• — what  she  does  not  see  always  in  "  Aunt  Eliza,"  —  a 


RELIGIOUS    TEACHING.  123 

dignity  of  character  that  is  proof  against  all  irritating 
humors  ;  then,  too,  he  has  appeared  to  Adele  a  very 
pattern  of  justice.  She  had  taken  exceptions,  indeed, 
when,  on  one  or  two  rare  occasions,  he  had  reached  down 
the  birch  rod  which  lay  upon  the  same  hooks  with  the 
sword  of  Major  Johns,  in  the  study,  and  had  called  in 
Eeuben  for  extraordinary  discipline  ;  but  the  boy's  man 
ifest  acquiescence  in  the  affair  when  his  cool  moments 
came  next  morning,  and  the  melancholy  air  of  kindness 
with  which  the  Doctor  went  in  to  kiss  him  a  good-night, 
after  such  regimen,  kept  alive  her  faith  in  the  unvarying 
justice  of  the  parson.  Therefore  she  tried  hard  to  tor 
ture  her  poor  little  heart  into  a  feeling  of  its  own  black 
ness,  (for  that  it  was  very  black  she  had  the  good  man's 
averment,)  she  listened  gravely  to  all  he  had  to  urge, 
and  when  he  had  fairly  overburdened  her  with  the 
enumeration  of  her  wicked,  worldly  appetites,  she  could 
only  say,  with  a  burst  of  emotion,  — 

"Well,  but,  New  Papa,  the  good  God  will  forgive 
me." 

"  Yes,  Adaly,  yes,  —  I  trust  so,  if  forgiveness  be 
sought  in  fear  and  trembling.  But  remember,  '  When 
God  created  man,  he  entered  into  a  covenant  of  life  with 
him  upon  condition  of  perfect  obedience.' " 

This  brings  back  to  poor  Adele  the  drudgery  of  the 
Saturday's  Catechism,  associated  with  the  sharp  correc 
tives  of  Aunt  Eliza ;  and  she  can  only  offer  a  pleading 
kiss  to  the  Doctor,  and  ask  plaintively,  — 

"May  I  go  now?" 

"One  moment,   Adaly,"  —  and  he   makes  her  kneel 


124  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

beside  him,  while  he  prays,  fervently,  passionately,  draw 
ing  her  frail  little  figure  to  himself,  even  as  he  prays,  as 
if  he  would  carry  her  with  him  in  his  arms  into  the 
celestial  presence. 

The  boy  Reuben,  too,  has  had  his  seasons  of  this 
closet  struggle  ;  but  they  are  rarer  now  ;  the  lad  has 
shrewdly  learned  to  adjust  himself  to  all  the  require 
ments  of  such  occasions.  He  has  put  on  a  leaden  acqui 
escence  in  the  Doctor's  theories,  whether  with  regard  to 
sanctification  or  redemption,  that  is  most  disheartening 
to  the  parson.  Does  any  question  of  the  Doctor's,  by 
any  catch-word,  suggest  an  answer  from  the  "Shorter 
Catechism "  as  applicable,  Reuben  is  ready  with  it  on 
the  instant. 

Does  the  Doctor  ask,  — 

"Do  you  know,  my  son,  the  sinfulness  of  the  estate  in 
which  you  are  living  ?  " 

"  Sinfulness  of  the  estate  whereunto  man  fell  ?  "  says 
Reuben,  briskly.  "  Know  it  like  a  book  :  —  '  Consists- 
in-the-guilt-of-^4 dam's  -first  -  sin  -  the  -  want  -  of  -  original- 
righteousness-and-the-corruption-  of-  his  -  whole  -  nature- 
which-is-commonly-called  -  original-sin-together- with-all- 
actual-transgressions-which-proceed-from-it.'  There  's  a 
wasp  on  your  shoulder,  father,  —  there  's  two  of  'em. 
I '11  kill 'em." 

No  wonder  the  good  Doctor  is  disheartened. 

Adele  has  no  open  quarrels  with  Miss  Johns ;  she  is 
obedient ;  she,  too,  has  fallen  under  the  influence  of 
that  magnetic  voice,  and  accepts  the  orders  and  the 
commendations  conveyed  by  it  as  if  they  were  utter- 


RELIGIOUS   TEACHING.  125 

ances  of  Fate.  Yet,  with  her  childish  instincts,  she 
has  formed  a  very  fair  estimate  of  the  character  of  Miss 
Eliza ;  it  is  doubtful  even  if  she  has  not  fathomed  it  in 
certain  directions  more  correctly  and  profoundly  than 
the  grave  Doctor.  She  sees  clearly  that  the  spinster's 
unvarying  solicitude  in  regard  to  the  dress  and  appear 
ance  of  "  dear  Adele  "  is  due  more  to  that  hard  pride  of 
character  which  she  nurses  every  day  of  her  life  than  to 
any  tenderness  for  the  little  stranger. 

"Adele,  my  dear,  you  look  charmingly  to-day,  with 
that  pink  bow  in  your  hair.  Do  you  know,  I  think  pink 
is  becoming  to  you,  my  child  ?  " 

And  Adele  listens  with  a  composed  smile,  not  un 
willing  to  be  admired. 

In  the  bright  belt-buckle,  in  the  big  leg-of-mutton 
sleeves,  in  the  glittering  brooch  containing  coils  of  the 
Johns'  haii*,  in  the  jaunty  walk  and  authoritative  air  of 
the  spinster,  the  quick,  keen  eye  of  Adele  sees  some 
thing  more  than  the  meek  Christian  teacher  and  friend. 
It  is  a  sin  in  her  to  see  it,  perhaps  ;  but  she  cannot 
help  it. 

Miss  Johns  has  not  succeeded  in  exciting  the  jeal 
ousy  of  Reuben,  —  at  least,  not  in  the  manner  she  had 
hoped.  He  sees,  indeed,  her  exaggerated  devotion  to 
the  little  stranger,  —  which  serves  in  her  presence,  at 
least,  to  call  out  all  his  indifference. 

But  when  they  meet  down  the  orchard,  away  from 
the  lynx  eye  of  Aunt  Eliza,  there  are  rare  apples  far  out 
upon  overhanging  limbs  that  he  can  pluck,  by  dint  of 
venturous  climbing,  for  her ;  and  as  he  sees  through 


126  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  boughs  her  delicate  figure  tripping  through  the 
grass,  and  lingers  to  watch  it,  there  comes  a  thought 
that  she  must  be  the  Amanda  of  the  story,  and  not 
Eose,  —  and  he,  perched  in  the  apple-tree,  a  glowing 
Mortimer. 


XXIII. 

Iteuben  leaves  Home. 

TN  the  year  183-,  Mr.  Maverick  writes  to  his  friend 
Johns  that  the  disturbed  condition  of  public  affairs 
in  France  will  compel  him  to  postpone  his  intended 
visit  to  America,  and  may  possibly  detain  him  for  a 
long  time  to  come.  He  further  says,  —  "In  order  to 
prevent  all  possible  hazards  which  may  grow  out  of  our 
revolutionary  fervor  on  this  side  of  the  water,  I  have 
invested  in  United  States  securities,  for  the  benefit  of 
my  dear  little  Adele,  a  sum  of  money  wrhich  will  yield 
some  seven  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Of  this  I  propose 
to  make  you  trustee,  and  desire  that  you  should  draw 
so  much  of  the  yearly  interest  as  you  may  determine  to 
be  for  her  best  good,  denying  her  no  reasonable  re 
quests,  and  making  your  household  reckoning  clear  of 
all  possible  deficit  on  her  account. 

"  I  am  charmed  with  the  improved  tone  of  her  letters, 
and  am  delighted  to  see  by  them  that  even  under  your 
grave  regimen  she  has  not  lost  her  old  buoyancy  of 
spirits.  My  dear  Johns,  I  owe  you  a  debt  in  this  mat 
ter  which  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay.  Kiss  the  little 


REUBEN  LEAVES  HOME.  127 

•flitch  for  me  ;  tell  her  that  e  Papa  '  always  thinks  of  her, 
as  he  sits  solitary  upon  the  green  bench  under  the 
arbor." 

She,  gaining  in  height  now  month  by  month,  wins 
more  and  more*  upon  the  grave  Doctor,  —  wins  upon 
Rose,  who  loves  her  as  she  loves  her  sisters,  —  wins  upon 
Phil,  whose  liking  for  her  is  becoming  demonstrative  to 
a  degree  that  prompts  a  little  jealousy  in  the  warm 
blooded  Reuben.  Day  after  day,  in  summer  weather, 
Rose  and  Adele  idle  together  along  the  embowered  paths 
of  the  village ;  the  Tew  partners  greet  the  pair  with 
smiles  ;  good  Mistress  Elderkin  has  always  a  cordial 
welcome  ;  the  stout  Squire  stoops  to  kiss  the  little  Jesuit, 
who  blushes  at  the  tender  affront  through  all  the  brown- 
ness  of  her  cheek,  like  a  rose.  Day  after  day  the  rum 
ble  of  the  mill  breaks  on  the  country  quietude  ;  and  as 
autumn  comes  in,  burning  with  all  its  forest  fires,  the 
farmer's  flails  beat  time  together,  as  they  did  ten  years 
before. 

At  the  academy,  Phil  and  Reuben  plot  mischief,  and 
they  cement  their  friendship  with  not  a  few  boyish 
quaiTels. 

Thus,  Reuben,  in  the  way  of  the  boyish  pomologists 
of  those  days,  has  buried  at  midsummer  in  the  orchard 
a  dozen  or  more  of  the  finest  windfalls  from  the  early 
apple-trees,  that  they  may  mellow,  away  from  the  air, 
into  good  eating  condition  ;  and  he  has  marked  the  spot 
in  his  boyish  way  with  a  little  pyramid  of  stones.  Stroll 
ing  down  the  orchard  a  few  days  later,  he  sees  Phil  com 
ing  away  from  that  locality,  with  his  pockets  bulging 


128  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

out  ominously,  and  munching  a  great  apple  with  extra* 
ordinary  relish.  Perhaps  there  is  a  thought  that  he 
may  design  a  gift  out  of  the  stolen  stores  for  Adele  ;  at 
any  rate,  Reuben  flies  at  him. 

"  I  say,  Phil,  that 's  doosed  mean  now,  to  be  stealing 
my  apples ! " 

"  Who  's  stole  your  apples  ?  "  says  Phil,  with  a  great 
roar  of  voice. 

"  You  have,"  says  Eeuben  ;  and  having  now  come  near 
enough  to  find  his  pyramid  of  stones  all  laid  low,  he 
says  more  angrily,  —  "  You  're  a  thief  !  and  you  've  got 
'em  in  your  pocket ! " 

"Thief  !  "  says  Phil,  looking  threateningly,  and  throw 
ing  away  his  apple  half-eaten  ;  "  if  you  call  me  a  thief,  I 
say  you  're  a you  know  what." 

"  Well,  blast  you,"  says  Eeuben,  boiling  with  rage, 
"  say  it !  Call  me  a  liar,  if  you  dare  !  " 

"I  do  dare,"  says  Phil,  "if  you  accuse  me  of  stealing 
your  apples  ;  and  I  say  you  're  a  liar,  and  be  hanged  to 
you  !  " 

At  this,  Reuben,  though  he  is  the  shorter  by  two 
or  three  inches,  and  no  match  for  his  foe  at  fisticuffs, 
plants  a  blow  straight  in  Philip's  face.  (He  said  after 
ward,  when  all  was  settled,  that  he  was  ten  times  more 
mortified  to  think  that  he  had  done  such  a  thing  in  his 
father's  orchard.) 

But  Phil  closed  upon  him,  and  kneading  him  with  his 
knuckles  in  the  back,  and  with  a  trip,  threw  him  heavily, 
falling  prone  upon  him.  Reuben,  in  a  frenzy,  and  with 
a  torrent  of  much  worse  language  than  he  was  in  the 


REUBEN  LEAVES  HOME.  129 

habit  of  using,  was  struggling  to  turn  him,  when  a  sharp, 
loud  voice,  which  they  both  knew  only  too  well,  came 
down  the  wind,  —  "  Boys  !  boys  !  "  and  presently  the 
Doctor  comes  up  panting. 

"  AVhat  does  this  mean  ?  Philip,  I  'm  ashamed  of 
you !  "  he  continues  ;  and  Philip  rises. 

Reuben,  rising,  too,  the  instant  after,  and  with  his 
fury  unchecked,  dashes  at  Phil  again  ;  when  the  Doctor 
seizes  him  by  the  collar  and  drags  him  aside. 

"  He  struck  me,"  says  PhiL 

"And  he  stole  my  apples  and  called  me  a  liar,"  says 
Reuben,  with  the  tears  starting,  though  he  tries  desper 
ately  to  keep  them  back,  seeing  that  Phil  shows  no  such 
evidence  of  emotion. 

"  Tut !  tut !  "  says  the  Doctor,  —  "  you  are  both  too 
angry  for  a  straight  story.  Come  with  me." 

And  taking  each  by  the  hand,  he  led  them  through 
the  garden  and  house,  directly  into  his  study.  There 
he  opens  a  closet-door,  with  the  sharp  order,  "Step  in 
here,  Reuben,  until  I  hear  Philip's  story."  This  Phil 
tells  straightforwardly,  —  how  he  was  passing  through 
the  orchard  with  a  pocketful  of  apples,  which  a  neigh 
bor's  boy  had  given,  and  how  Reuben*  came  upon  him 
with  swift  accusation,  and  then  the  fight.  "  But  he 
hurt  me  more  than  I  hurt  him,"  says  Phil,  wiping  his 
nose,  which  showed  a  little  ooze  of  blood. 

"  Good  !  "  says  the  Doctor,  —  "I  think  you  tell  the 
truth." 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Phil,  —  "  I  know  I  do,  Doctor." 

Next  Reuben  is  called  out. 
9 


130  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"Do  you  know  he  took  the  apples?"  asks  the  Doctor. 

"Don't  know,"  says  Reuben,  —  "but  he  was  by  the 
place,  and  the  stones  thrown  down." 

"And  is  that  sufficient  cause,  Eeuben,  for  accusing 
your  friend  ?  " 

At  which,  Reuben,  shifting  his  position  uneasily  from 
one  foot  to  the  other,  says,  — 

"  I  believe  he  did,  though." 

"  Stop,  sir  ! "  says  the  Doctor  in  a  voice  that  makes 
Reuben  sidle  away. 

"  Here,"  says  Phil,  commiserating  him  in  a  grand 
way,  and  beginning  to  discharge  his  pockets  on  the 
Doctor's  table,  "he  may  have  them,  if  he  wants  them." 

Reuben  stares  at  them  a  moment  in  astonishment, 
then  breaks  out  with  a  great  tremor  in  his  voice,  but 
roundly  enough,  — 

"  By  George !  they  're  not  the  same  apples  at  all. 
I  'm  sorry  I  told  you  that,  Phil." 

"Don't  say  '  By  George'  before  me,  or  anywhere 
else,"  says  the  Doctor,  sharply.  "It 's  but  a  sneaking 
oath,  sir  ;  yet "  (more  gently)  "  I  'm  glad  of  your  hon 
esty,  Reuben." 

At  the  instigation  of  the  parson  the}r  shake  hands ; 
after  which  he  leads  them  both  into  his  closet,  beckon 
ing  them  to  kneel  on  either  side  of  him,  as  he  com 
mends  them  in  his  stately  way  to  heaven,  trusting  that 
they  may  live  in  good  fellowship  henceforth,  and  keep 
His  counsel,  who  was  the  great  Peacemaker,  always  in 
their  hearts. 

Next  morning,  when  Reuben  goes  to  reconnoiter  the 


REUBEN  LEAVES  HOME.  131 


place  of  his  buried  treasure,  he  finds  all  safe,  and  taking 
the  better  half  of  the  fruit,  he  marches  away  with  a 
proud  step  to  the  Elderkin  house.  The  basket  is  for 
Phil.  But  Phil  is  not  at  home  ;  so  he  leaves  the  .gift, 
and  a  message,  with  a  short  story  of  it  all,  with  the 
tender  Rose,  whose  eyes  dance  with  girlish  admiration 
at  this  stammered  tale  of  his,  and  her  fingers  tremble 
when  they  touch  the  boy's  in  the  transfer  of  his  little 
burden. 

Reuben  walks  away  prouder  yet ;  is  not  this  sweet- 
faced  girl,  after  all,  Amanda  ? 

There  come  quarrels,  however,  with  the  academy 
teacher  not  so  easily  smoothed  over.  The  Doctor  and 
the  master  hold  long  consultations.  Reuben,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  has  bad  associates.  The  boy  makes  interest, 
through  Nat  Boody,  with  the  stage-driver  ;  and  one  day 
the  old  ladies  are  horrified  at  seeing  the  parson's  son 
mounted  on  the  box  of  the  coach  beside  the  driver,  and 
putting  his  boyish  fingers  to  the  test  of  four-in-hand. 
Of  course  he  is  a  truant  that  day  from  school,  and  toil 
ing  back  footsore  and  weary,  after  tea,  he  can  give  but 
a  lame  account  of  himself.  He  brings,  another  time, 
a  horrid  fighting  cur,  (as  Miss  Eliza  terms  it  in  her  dis 
gust,)  for  which  he  has  bartered  away  the  new  muffler 
that  the  spinster  has  knit.  He  thinks  it  a  splendid  bar 
gain.  Miss  Johns  and  the  Doctor  do  not. 

He  is  reported  by  credible  witnesses  as  loitering 
about  the  tavern  in  the  summer  nights,  long  after 
prayers  are  over  at  the  parsonage,  and  the  lights  are 
out;  thus  it  is  discovered,  to  the  great  horror  of  the 


132  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

household,  that  by  connivance  with.  Phil  he  makes  his 
way  over  the  roof  of  the  kitchen  from  his  chamber- 
window  to  join  in  these  night  forays.  After  long  con 
sideration,  in  which  Grandfather  Handby  is  brought  into 
consultation,  it  is  decided  to  place  the  boy  for  a  while 
under  the  charge  of  the  latter  for  discipline,  and  with 
the  hope  that  removal  from  his  town  associates  may 
work  good.  But  within  a  fortnight  after  the  change  is 
made,  Grandfather  Handby  drives  across  the  country 
in  his  wagon,  with  Reuben  seated  beside  him  with  a 
comic  gravity  on  his  face  ;  and  the  old  gentleman,  plead 
ing  the  infirmities  of  age,  and  giving  the  boy  a  farewell 
tap  on  the  cheek,  (for  he  loves  him,  though  he  has 
whipped  him  almost  daily,)  restores  him  to  the  pater 
nal  roof. 

At  this  crisis,  Squire  Elderkin  —  who,  to  tell  truth, 
has  a  little  fear  of  the  wayward  propensities  of  the  par 
son's  son  in  misleading  Phil  —  recommends  trial  of  the 
discipline  of  a  certain  Parson  Brummem  who  fills  the 
parish-pulpit  upon  Bolton  Hill.  This  dignitary  was  a 
tall,  lank,  leathern -faced  man,  of  incorruptible  zeal  and 
stately  gravity,  who  held  under  his  stern  dominion  a 
little  flock  of  two  hundred  souls,  and  who,  eking  out 
a  narrow  parochial  stipend  by  the  week-day  office  of 
teaching,  had  gained  large  repute  for  his  subjugation 
of  refractory  boys. 

A  feeble  little  invalid  wife  cringed  beside  him  along 
the  journey  of  life  ;  and  it  would  be  pitiful  to  think 
that  she  had  not  long  ago  entered,  in  way  of  remuner 
ation,  upon  paths  of  pleasantness  beyond  the  grave. 


REUBEN  LEASES  HOME.  133 

Parson  Brumniem  received  Brother  Johns,  \\hen  he 
drove  with  Reuben  to  the  parsonage-door,  on  that  wild 
waste  of  Bolton  Hill,  with  all  the  unction  of  manner 
that  belonged  to  him  ;  but  it  was  so  grave  an  unction 
as  to  chill  poor  Reuben  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 
A  week's  experience  only  dispersed  the  chill  when  the 
tingle  of  the  parson's  big  rod  wrought  a  glow  in  him 
that  was  almost  madness.  Yet  Reuben  chafed  not  so 
much  at  the  whippings  —  to  which  he  was  well  used  — 
as  at  the  dreariness  of  the  new  home,  the  melancholy 
waste  of  common  over  which  March  winds  blew  all  the 
year,  the  pinched  faces  that  met  him  without  other  rec 
ognition  than,  "One  o'  Parson  Bruinrnem's  b'ys."  Xor 
in-doors  was  the  aspect  more  inviting :  a  big  red  table 
around  which  sat  six  fellow-martyrs  with  their  slates 
and  geographies,  a  tall  desk  at  which  Brnmmem  in 
dited  his  sermons,  and  from  time  to  time  a  little  side- 
door  opening  timidly,  through  which  came  a  weary 
woman's  voice,  "  Ezekiel,  dear,  one  minute  !  "  at  which 
the  great  man  strides  thither,  and  lends  his  great  ear 
to  the  family  council 

Ah,  the  long,  weary  mornings,  when  the  sun,  pouring 
through  the  curtainless  south  windows  a  great  blaze 
upon  the  oaken  floor,  lights  up  for  Reuben  only  the  cob- 
webbed  corners,  the  faded  roundabouts  of  fellow-mar 
tyrs,  the  dismal  figures  of  Daboll,  the  shining  tail-coat 
of  Master  Brummero,  as  he  stalks  up  and  down  from 
horn*  to  hour,  collecting  in  this  way  his  scattered 
thoughts  for  some  new  argumentative  thrust  of  the  quill 
into  the  sixthly  or  the  seventhly  of  his  next  week's  ser- 


134  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

mon !  And  the  long  and  weary  afternoons,  when  the 
sun  with  a  mocking  bounty  pours  through  the  dusty 
and  curtainless  windows  to  the  west,  lighting  only  again 
the  gray  and  speckled  roundabouts  of  the  fagging  boys, 
the  maps  of  Malte-Brun,  and  the  shining  forehead  of 
the  Brummem ! 

There  is  a  dismal,  graceless,  bald  air  about  town  and 
house  and  master,  which  is  utterly  revolting  to  the  lad, 
whose  childish  feet  had  pattered  beside  the  tender 
Rachel  along  the  embowered  paths  of  Ashfield.  The 
lack  of  congeniality  affronts  his  whole  nature.  In  the 
keenness  of  his  martyrdom,  (none  the  less  real  because 
fancied,)  the  leathern-faced,  gaunt  Brummem  takes  the 
shape  of  some  Giant  Despair  with  bloody  maw  and 
mace,  —  and  he,  the  child  of  some  Christiana,  for  whose 
guiding  hand  he  gropes  vainly :  she  has  gone  before  to 
the  Celestial  City! 

The  rod  of  the  master  does  not  cure  the  chronic  state 
of  moody  rebellion  into  which  Reuben  lapses,  with  these 
fancies  on  him.  It  drives  him  at  last  to  an  act  of 
desperation.  The  lesson  in  Daboll  that  day  was  a  hard 
one ;  but  it  was  not  the  lesson,  or  his  short-comings  in 
it,  —  it  was  not  the  hand  of  the  master,  which  had  been 
heavy  on  him,  —  but  it  was  a  vague,  dismal  sense  of 
the  dreariness  of  his  surroundings,  of  the  starched  looks 
that  met  him,  of  the  weary  monotony,  of  the  lack  of 
sympathy,  which  goaded  him  to  the  final  overt  act  of 
rebellion,  —  which  made  him  dash  his  leathern-bound 
arithmetic  full  into  the  face  of  the  master,  and  then  sit 
down,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 


REUBEN  LEAVES  HOME. 


'35 


The  stern  doctrines  of  Parson  Brummern  had  taught 
him,  at  least,  a  rigid  self-command.  He  did  not  strike 
the  lad.  But  recovering  from  his  amazement,  he  says, 
"Very  well,  very  well,  Master  Beuben,  we  will  sleep 
upon  this;"  and  then,  tapping  at  the  inner  door, 
"Keziah,  make  ready  the  little  chamber  over  the  hall 
for  Master  Johns :  he  must  be  by  himself  to-night : 
give  him  a  glass  of  water  and  a  slice  of  dry  bread  : 
nothing  else,  sir,  (turning  to  Reuben  now,)  until  you 
come  to  me  to-morrow  at  nine,  in  this  place,  and  ask  my 
pardon  ;"  and  he  motions  him  to  the  door. 

Reuben  staggers  out,  —  staggers  up-stairs  into  the 
dismal  chamber.  It  looks  out  only  upon  a  bald  waste 
of  common.  Shortly  after,  a  slatternly  maid  brings  his 
prison  fare,  and,  with  a  little  kindly  discretion,  has 
added  secretly  a  roll  of  gingerbread.  Reuben  thanks 
her,  and  says,  "  You  're  a  good  woman,  Keziah ;  and  I 
say,  won't  you  fetch  me  my  cap,  there  's  a  good  un  ; 
it 's  cold  here."  The  maid,  with  great  show  of  caution, 
complies ;  a  few  minutes  after,  the  parson  comes,  and 
looking  in  warningly,  closes  and  locks  the  door  outside. 


136  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

XXIV. 

Reuben  Escapes. 

AWEARY  evening  follows,  in  which  thoughts  of 
Adele,  of  nights  at  the  Elderkins',  of  Phil,  of  Rose, 
flash  upon  him,  and  spend  their  richness,  leaving  him 
more  madly  disconsolate.  Then  come  thoughts  of  the 
morning  humiliation,  of  the  boys  pointing  their  fingers 
at  him  after  school. 

"  No,  they  sha'n't,  by  George  ! " 

And  with  this  decision  he  dropped  asleep  ;  with  this 
decision  ripened  in  him,  he  woke  at  three  in  the  morn 
ing,  —  waited  for  the  hall  clock  to  strike,  that  he  might 
be  sure  of  his  hour,  —  tied  together  the  two  sheets  of 
Mistress  Brummem's  bed,  opened  the  window  gently, 
dropped  out  his  improvised  cable,  slid  upon  it  safely  to 
the  ground,  and  before  day  had  broken  or  any  of  the 
towns-folk  were  astir,  had  crossed  all  the  more  open 
portion  of  the  village,  and  by  sunrise  had  plunged  into 
the  wooded  swamp-land  which  lay  three  miles  westward 
toward  the  river. 

At  nine  next  morning,  prayers  and  breakfast  being 
dispatched,  — during  which  Parson  Brummem  had  de 
termined  to  leave  Reuben  to  the  sting  of  his  con 
science,  —  the  master  appears  in  the  school-room  with 
his  wristbands  turned  up,  and  his  ferule  in  hand,  to 
enforce  judgment  upon  the  culprit.  It  had  been  a 


REUBEN  ESCAPES.  137 

frosty  night,  and  the  cool  October  air  had  not  tempted 
the  boys  to  any  wide  movement  out  of  doors,  so  that  no 
occupant  of  the  parsonage  had  as  yet  detected  the  drag 
gled  white  banner  that  hung  from  the  prison- window. 

Through  Keziah,  the  parson  gave  orders  for  Master 
Johns  to  report  himself  at  once  in  the  school-room. 
The  maid  returned  presently,  clattering  down  the  stairs 
in  a  great  fright,  — 

"  Reuben  's  gone,  sir  ! " 

"Gone?"  says  the  tall  master,  astounded.  He  re 
presses  a  wriggle  of  healthful  satisfaction  on  the  part 
of  his  pupils  by  a  significant  lift  of  his  ferule,  then 
moves  ponderously  up  the  stairs  for  a  personal  visit  to 
the  chamber  of  the  culprit.  The  maid  had  given  true 
report;  there  was  no  one  there.  Never  had  he  been 
met  with  such  barefaced  rebellion.  Truants,  indeed, 
there  had  been  in  days  gone  by  ;  but  that  a  pupil  under 
discipline  should  have  tied  together  Mistress  Brurnrnenrs 
linen  and  left  it  draggling  in  this  way,  in  the  sight  of 
every  passer-by,  was  an  affront  to  his  authority  which 
he  had  not  deemed  possible. 

An  hour  thereafter,  and  he  had  assigned  the  morn 
ing's  task  to  the  boys  (which  he  had  ventured  to 
lengthen  by  a  third,  in  view  —  as  he  said,  with  a  grim 
humor  —  of  their  extremely  cheerful  spirits)  ;  estab 
lished  Mistress  Brummem  in  temporary  charge,  and 
was  driving  his  white-faced  nag  down  the  road  which 
led  toward  Ashfield.  The  frosted  pools  crackled  un^ 
der  the  wheels  of  the  old  chaise  ;  the  heaving  horsq 
wheezed  as  the  stern  parson  gave  his  loins  a  thwaclj 


138  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

with  the  slackened  reins,  and  urged  him  down  the  turn 
pike  which  led  away  through  the  ill-kept  fields,  from 
the  rambling,  slatternly  town.  Stone  walls  that  had 
borne  the  upheaval  of  twenty  winters  reeled  beside  the 
way.  Broad  scars  of  ocherous  earth,  from  which  the 
turnpike-menders  had  dug  material  to  patch  the  wheel- 
track,  showed  ooze  of  yellow  mud  with  honeycombs  of 
ice  rimming  their  edges,  and  supporting  a  thin  film  of 
sod  made  up  of  lichens  and  the  roots  of  five-fingers. 
Kaw,  shapeless  stones,  and  bald,  gray  rocks,  only  half 
unearthed,  cumbered  the  road  ;  while  bunches  of 
dwarfed  birches,  browsed  by  straying  cattle,  added  to 
the  repulsiveness  of  the  scene.  Nor  were  the  enclosed 
lands  scarcely  more  inviting.  Lean  shocks  of  corn  that 
had  swayed  under  the  autumn  winds  stretched  at  long 
intervals  across  fields  of  thin  stubble ;  a  few  half- 
ripened  pumpkins,  hanging  yet  to  the  seared  vines,  — 
whose  leaves  had  long  since  been  shriveled  by  the  frost, 
—  showed  their  shining  green  faces  on  the  dank  soil. 
In  other  fields,  overrun  with  a  great  shaggy  growth  of 
rag- weed,  some  of  the  parson's  flock  —  father  and  blue- 
nosed  boys  —  were  lifting  poor  crops  of  "bile-whites" 
or  "merinos."  From  time  to  time,  a  tall  house  jutted 
upon  the  road,  with  unctuous  pig-sty  under  the  lee  of 
the  garden-fence  and  wood-pile  sprawling  into  the  high 
way,  where  the  parson  would  rein  up  his  nag,  and  make 
inquiry  after  the  truant  Reuben. 

A  half-dozen  of  these  stops  and  inquiries  proved 
wholly  vain  ;  yet  the  sturdy  parson  urged  his  poor, 
heaving  nag  forward,  until  he  had  come  to  the  little 


REUBEN  ESCAPES.  139 

gate-house  which  thrust  itself  quite  acioss  the  high 
road  at  some  six  miles'  distance  from  Bolton  Church. 
No  stray  boy  had  passed  that  day.  Thereupon  the 
parson  turned,  and,  after  retracing  his  way  for  two 
miles  or  more,  struck  into  a  cross-road  which  led  west 
ward.  There  were  the  same  fruitless  inquiries  here 
at  the  scattered  houses,  and  when  he  came  at  length 
upon  the  great  river-road  along  which  the  boy  had 
passed  at  the  first  dawn,  there  was  no  one  who  could 
tell  any  thing  of  him  ;  and  by  noon  the  parson  reen- 
tered  the  village,  disconsolate  and  hungry.  He  was  by 
no  means  a  vindictive  man,  and  could  very  likely  have 
forgiven  Reuben  the  blow  he  had  struck.  He  had  no 
conception  of  the  hidden  causes  which  had  wrought  in 
the  lad  such  burst  of  anger.  He  conceived  only  that 
Satan  had  taken  hold  of  him,  and  he  had  strong  faith  in 
the  efficacy  of  the  rod  for  driving  Satan  out. 

After  dinner  he  administered  a  sharp  lecture  to  his 
pupils,  admonishing  them  of  the  evils  of  disobedience, 
and  warning  them  that  "  God  sometimes  left  bad  boys 
to  their  own  evil  courses,  and  to  run  like  the  herd  of 
swine  into  which  the  unclean  spirits  entered,  —  of 
which  account  might  be  found  in  Mark  v.  13,  —  down 
a  steep  place,  and  be  choked." 

The  parson  still  had  hope  that  Reuben  might  appear 
at  evening  ;  and  he  forecast  a  good  turn  which  he 
would  make,  in  such  event,  upon  the  parable  of  the 
Prodigal  Son  (with  the  omission,  however,  of  the  fatted 
calf).  But  the  prodigal  did  not  return.  Next  day 
there  was  the  same  hope,  but  fainter.  Still,  the  prodi- 


140  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

gal  Reuben  did  not  return.  Whereupon  the  parson 
thought  it  his  duty  to  write  to  Brother  Johns,  advising 
him  of  the  escape  of  Reuben,  • —  "he  having  stolen 
away  in  the  night,  tying  together  and  much  draggling 
Mrs.  Brummem's  pair  of  company  sheets,  (no  other 
being  out  of  wash,)  and  myself  following  after  vainly, 
the  best  portion  of  a  day,  much  perturbed  in  spirit,  in 
my  chaise.  I  duly  instructed  my  parishioners  to  report 
him,  if  found,  which  has  not  been  the  case.  I  trust 
that  in  the  paternal  home,  if  he  has  made  his  way 
thither,  he  may  be  taught  to  open  his  '  ear  to  dis 
cipline,'  and  'return  from  iniquity.'  Job  xxxvi.  10." 

The  good  parson  was  a  type  of  not  a  few  retired 
country  ministers  in  New  England  forty  years  ago  :  a 
heavy-minded,  right-meaning  man  ;  utterly  inaccessible 
to  any  of  the  graces  of  life ;  no  bird  ever  sang  in  his 
ear  ;  no  flower  ever  bloomed  for  his  eye  ;  a  man  to 
•whom  life  was  only  a  serious  spiritual  toil,  and  all 
human  joys  a  vanity  to  be  spurned  ;  preaching  tediously 
long  sermons,  and  counting  the  fatigue  of  the  listeners 
a  fitting  oblation  to  spiritual  truth  ;  staggering  through 
life  with  a  great  burden  of  theologies  on  his  back, 
which  it  was  his  constant  struggle  to  pack  into  smaller 
and  smaller  compass,  —  not  so  much,  we  fear,  for  the 
relief  of  others  as  of  himself.  Let  us  hope  that  the 
burden  —  like  that  of  Christian  in  the  "Pilgrim's  Prog 
ress  "  —  slipped  away  before  he  entered  the  Celestial 
Presence,  and  left  him  free  to  enjoy  and  admire,  more 
than  he  found  time  to  do  on  earth,  the  beauty  of  that 
blessed  angel  in  the  higher  courts  whose  name  is  Charity 


REUBEN'S    VOYAGE.  141 

XXV. 

Reuberis  Voyage. 

TT)EUBEN,  meantime,  pushed  boldly  down  the  open 
J-*^  road,  until  broad  sunlight  warned  him  to  a  safer 
path  across  the  fields.  He  had  been  too  much  of  a  ram 
bler  during  those  long  Saturday  afternoons  at  Ashfield, 
to  have  any  dread  of  a  tramp  through  swamp-land  or 
briers.  "Who  cared  for  wet  feet  or  a  scratch?  "Who 
cared  for  a  rough  scramble  through  the  bush,  or  a  wade 
(if  it  came  to  that)  through  ever  so  big  a  brook  ?  "Who 
cared  for  old  Brummem  and  his  white-faced  nag  ?  "  In 
fact,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  parson's  venerable 
chaise  lumbering  along  the  public  road  at  a  safe  distance 
away,  an  hour  before  noon  ;  and  he  half  wished  he  were 
near  enough  to  give  the  jolly  old  nag  a  good  switching 
across  the  flanks.  He  had  begged  a  bit  of  warm  break 
fast  in  the  morning  at  an  outlying  house,  and  at  the 
hour  when  he  caught  sight  of  his  pursuer  he  was  lying 
under  the  edge  of  a  wood,  lunching  upon  the  ginger 
bread  Keziah  had  provided,  and  beginning  to  reckon  up 
soberly  what  was  to  be  done. 

His  first  impulse  had  been  simply  to  escape  a  good 
flogging  and  the  taunts  of  the  boys.  He  had  shunned 
the  direct  Ashfield  turnpike,  because  he  knew  pursuit  — 
if  there  were  any  —  would  lead  off  in  that  direction. 


142  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

From  the  river  road  he  might  diverge  into  that,  if  he 
chose.  But  if  he  went  home,  —  what  then  ?  The  big 
gray  eyes  of  Aunt  Eliza  he  knew  would  greet  him  at  the 
door,  looking  thunderbolts.  Adele,  and  may  be  Rose, 
would  welcome  him  in  kindly  way  enough,  —  but  very 
pityingly,  when  the  Doctor  should  summon  him  quietly 
into  his  low  study.  For  they  knew,  and  he  knew,  that 
the  big  rod  would  presently  come  down  from  its  place 
by  the  Major's  sword,  —  a  rod  that  never  came  down, 
except  it  had  some  swift  office  to  perform.  And  next 
day,  perhaps,  —  whatever  might  be  the  kindly  pleadings 
of  Adele,  (thus  far  he  nattered  himself,)  the  old  horse 
Dobbins  would  be  in  harness  to  carry  him  back  to  Bol- 
ton  Hill,  where  of  a  surety  some  new  birch  was  already 
in  pickle  for  the  transgressor.  Or,  if  this  mortification 
were  spared,  there  would  be  the  same  weary  round  of 
limitations  and  exactions  from  which  he  longed  to  break 
away.  And  as  he  sits  there  under  the  lee  of  the  wood, 
—  seeing  presently  Brummem's  heavy  cavalry  wheel  and 
retire  from  pursuit,  —  the  whole  scene  of  his  last  alter 
cation  in  the  study  at  Ashfield  drifts  before  him  again 
clear  as  day. 

After  it  had  closed  the  Doctor,  in  an  agony  of  spirit, 
(the  boy  recalled  it  perfectry,)  had  risen  and  paced  back 
and  forth  in  his  study  ;  then,  after  a  little,  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees  near  to  Reuben,  and  prayed  silently, 
with  his  hands  clasped. 

The  boy  had  melted  somewhat  at  this,  and  still  more 
when  the  father  rose  with  traces  of  a  tear  in  his  eye. 

"  Are  you  not  softened  now,  my  son  ?  " 


REUBEN'S    VOYAGE.  143 

"I  always  am  when  I  see  you  going  on  that  way/' 
said  Reuben. 

"  My  poor  son  !  "  —  and  he  had  drawn  the  boy  to  him, 
gazing  into  the  face  from  which  the  blue  eyes  of  the  lost 
Rachel  looked  calmly  out,  moved  beyond  himself. 

If,  indeed,  the  lost  Rachel  had  been  really  there  between 
the  two,  to  interpret  the  heart  of  the  son  to  the  father ! 

Is  Reuben  whimpering  as  the  memory  of  this  last  ten 
der  episode  comes  to  his  memory  ?  What  would  Phil  or 
the  rest  of  the  Ashfield  fellows  say  to  a  runaway  boy  snif 
fling  under  the  edge  of  the  wood  ?  Not  he,  by  George  ! 
And  he  munches  at  his  roll  of  gingerbread  with  a  new 
zest,  —  confirming  his  vagabond  purpose,  that  just  now 
wavered,  with  a  thought  of  those  tedious  Saturday  nights 
and  the  "  reasons  annexed,"  and  Aunt  Eliza's  sharp  elbow 
nudging  him  upon  the  hard  pew-benches,  as  she  gives 
a  muffled,  warning  whisper,  —  "Attend  to  the  sermon, 
Reuben  ! " 

Aud  so,  with  glorious  visions  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor  in 
his  mind,  and  a  cheery  remembrance  of  Crusoe  when  he 
cut  himself  adrift  from  home  and  family  for  his  won 
derful  adventures,  Reuben  pushes  gallantly  on  through 
the  woods  in  the  direction  of  the  river.  He  knows  that 
somewhere,  up  or  down,  a  sloop  will  be  found  bound 
for  New  York.  From  the  heights  around  Ashfield,  he 
has  seen,  time  and  again,  their  white  sails  specking  some 
distant  field  of  blue.  Once,  too,  upon  a  drive  with  the 
Doctor,  he  had  seen  these  marvelous  vessels  from  a 
nearer  point,  and  had  looked  wistfully  upon  their  white 
decks  and  green  companion-ways. 


144  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Overhead  the  jays  cried  from  the  bare  chestnut-trees; 
from  time  to  time  the  whirr  of  a  brood  of  partridges 
startled  him ;  the  red  squirrels  chattered  ;  still  he 
pushed  on,  catching  a  chance  dinner  at  a  wayside  farm 
house,  and  by  night  had  come  within  plain  sight  of  the 
water.  The  sloop  Princess  lay  at  the  Glastonbury  dock 
close  by,  laden  with  wood  and  potatoes,  and  bound  for 
New  York  the  next  moniing.  The  kind-hearted  skipper, 
who  was  also  the  owner  of  the  vessel,  took  a  sudden 
fancy  to  the  sore-footed,  blue-eyed  boy  who  came  aboard 
to  bargain  for  a  passage  to  the  city.  The  truant  was 
not,  indeed,  overstocked  with  ready  money,  but  was 
willing  to  pawn  what  valuables  he  had  about  him,  and 
hinted  at  a  rich  aunt  in  the  city  who  would  make  good 
what  moneys  were  lacking.  The  skipper  has  a  shrewd 
suspicion  how  the  matter  stands,  and,  with  a  kindly 
sympathy  for  the  lad,  consents  to  give  him  passage  on 
condition  he  drops  a  line  into  the  mail  to  tell  his  friends 
which  way  he  has  gone  ;  and  taking  a  dingy  sheet  of 
paper  from  the  locker  under  his  berth,  he  seats  Eeuben 
with  pen  in  hand  at  the  cabin-table,  whereupon  the 
boy  writes,  — 

"  DEAR  FATHER,  —  I  have  come  away  from  school.  I 
don't  know  as  you  will  like  it  much.  I  walked  all  the 
way  from  Bolton,  and  my  feet  are  very  sore  ;  I  don't 
think  I  could  walk  home.  Captain  Saul  says  he  will 
take  me  by  the  way  of  New  York.  I  can  go  and  see 
Aunt  Mabel.  I  will  tell  her  you  are  all  well. 

"  How  is  Adele  and  Phil  and  Rose  and  the  others  ?    I 


REL'BEX'S    VOYAGE.  145 

hope  you  won't  be  very  angry.  I  don't  think  Mr.  Brum- 
mem's  is  much  of  a  school.  I  don't  learn  so  much  there 
as  I  learned  at  home.  I  don't  think  the  boys  there  are 
good  companions.  I  think  they  are  wicked  boys  some 
times.  Mr.  Brummem  says  they  are.  And  he  whips 
awful  hard. 

"  Yr  affect,  son, 

"  REUBEN." 

And  the  skipper,  taking  the  letter  ashore  to  post  it, 
adds  upon  the  margin,  — 

"I  opened  the  Within  to  see  who  the  boy  was  ;  and 
This  is  to  say,  I  shall  take  him  Aboard,  and  shall  be  off 
Chatham  Red  Quarries  to-morrow  night  and  next  day 
morning,  and,  if  you  signal  from  the  dock,  can  send  him 
Ashore.  Or,  if  this  don't  Come  in  time,  my  berth  is 
Peck  Slip,  in  York. 

"  JOHN  SAUL,  Sloop  Princess" 

Next  day  they  go  drifting  down  the  river.  A  quiet, 
smoky  October  day  ;  the  distant  hills  all  softened  in  the 
haze  ;  the  near  shores  green  with  the  fresh-springing 
aftermath.  Reuben  lounged  upon  the  sunny  side  of  the 
mainsail,  thinking,  with  respectful  pity,  of  the  poor 
fagged  fellows  in  roundabouts  who  were  seated  at  that 
hour  before  the  red  desks  in  Parson  Brurnrneni's  school 
room.  At  length  he  was  enjoying  a  taste  of  that  out 
side  life  of  which  he  had  known  only  from  travelers' 
books,  or  from  such  lucky  ones  as  the  accomplished 
10 


146  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Tavern  Boody.  Henceforth  he,  too,  would  have  his 
stories  to  tell.  The  very  rustle  of  the  water  around  the 
prow  of  the  good  sloop  Princess  was  full  of  Sindbad 
echoes.  For  ten  hours  the  Captain  lies  off  Chatham 
Quarries,  taking  on  additional  freight  there  ;  but  there 
is  no  signal  from  the  passenger  dock.  The  next  morn 
ing  the  hawsers  were  cast  off,  and  the  mainsail  run  up 
again  while  the  Princess  surged  away  into  the  middle 
of  the  current. 

"  Now,  my  boy,  we  're  in  for  a  sail  !  "  said  Captain 
Saul. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Reuben,  who  would  have  been 
doubly  glad,  if  he  had  known  of  his  narrow  escape  at 
the  last  landing. 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  much  of  a  kit?"  said  the 
Captain. 

The  truth  is,  that  a  pocket-comb  was  the  extent  of 
Reuben's  equipment  for  the  voyage.  It  came  out  on 
further  talk  with  the  Captain  ;  and  the  boy  was  morti 
fied  to  make  such  small  show  of  appliances. 

"Well,  well,"  says  the  Captain,  "we  must  keep  this 
toggery  for  the  city,  you  know  ;"  and  he  finds  a  blue 
woolen  shirt,  —  for  the  boy  is  of  good  height  for  his 
years,  —  and  a  foremast  hand  shortens  in  a  pair  of  old 
duck  trousers  for  him,  in  which  Reuben  paces  up  and 
down  the  deck,  with  a  mortal  dread  at  first  lest  the 
boom  may  make  a  dash  against  the  wind  and  knock  him 
overboard,  in  quite  sailorly  fashion.  The  beef  is  hard 
indeed  ;  but  a  page  or  two  out  of  "  Dampier's  Voyages," 
of  which  an  old  copy  is  in  the  cabin,  makes  it  seem  all 


REUBEX'S    VOYAGE.  147 

right.  The  shores,  too,  are  changing  from  hour  to 
hour ;  a  brig  drifts  within  hail  of  them,  which  Reuben 
watches,  half  envying  the  fortunate  fellows  in  red  shirts 
and  tasseled  caps  aboard,  who  are  bound  to  Cuba,  and 
in  a  fortnight's  time  can  pluck  oranges  off  the  trees 
there,  to  say  nothing  of  pine-apples  and  sugar-cane. 

Over  the  Saybrook  Bar  there  is  a  plunging  of  the  ves 
sel  which  horrifies  him  somewhat ;  but  smooth  weather 
follows,  with  long  lines  of  hills  half-faded  on  the  rim  of 
the  water,  and  the  country  sounds  at  last  all  dead.  A 
day  or  two  of  this,  with  only  a  mild  autumnal  breeze, 
and  then  a  sharp  wind,  —  with  the  foam  flying  over 
forecastle  and  wood-pile,  between  the  winding  shores, 
toward  Flushing  Bay,  —  brings  sight  of  great  white 
houses  with  green  turf  coming  down  to  the  rocks,  where 
the  waves  play  and  break  among  the  drifted  sea-weed. 
Captain  Saul  is  fast  at  his  helm,  while  the  big  boom 
creaks  and  crashes  from  side  to  side  as  he  beats  up  the 
narrowing  channel,  rounding  Throg's  Point,  where  the 
light-house  and  old  whitewashed  fort  stand  shining  in 
the  sun,  —  skirting  low  rocky  islands,  doubling  other 
points,  dashing  at  half-tide  through  the  roar  and  whirl 
of  Hell  Gate,  —  Reuben  glowing  with  excitement,  and 
mindful  of  Kidd  and  of  his  buried  treasure  along  these 
shores.  Then  came  the  turreted  Bridewell,  and  at  last 
the  spires,  the  forest  of  masts,  with  all  that  prodigious, 
crushing,  bewildering  effect  with  which  the  first  sight  of 
a  great  city  weighs  upon  the  thought  of  a  country- 
taught  boy. 

"Now  mind  the  rogues,  Reuben,"  said  Captain  Saul, 


148  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

when  they  were  fairly  alongside  the  dock  ;  "  and  keep 
by  your  bunk  for  a  day  or  two,  boy.  Don't  stray  too 
far  from  the  vessel,  —  Princess,  Captain  Saul,  remember." 


XXVI 

A  Rosary. 

r|lHE  Doctor  is  not  a  little  shocked  by  the  note  which 
J-  he  receives  from  Reuben,  and  wThich  comes  too 
late  for  the  interception  of  the  boy  upon  the  river.  He 
writes  to  Mrs.  Brindlock,  begging  the  kind  offices  of 
her  husband  in  looking  after  the  lad,  until  such  time 
as  he  can  come  down  for  his  recovery.  The  next  day, 
to  complete  his  mortification,  he  receives  the  epistle  of 
Brother  Brummem. 

The  growing  vagabondage  of  the  boy  distressed  him 
the  more  by  reason  of  his  own  responsible  connection 
with  the  little  daughter  of  his  French  friend.  How 
should  he,  who  could  not  guide  in  even  courses  the  child 
of  his  own  loins,  presume  to  conduct  the  little  exile  from 
the  heathen  into  paths  of  piety  ? 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  the  character  of  the  blithe 
Adcle,  notwithstanding  the  terrible  nature  of  her  early 
associations,  seems  to  fuse  more  readily  into  agreement 
with  the  moral  atmosphere  about  her  than  does  that  of 
the  recreant  boy.  If  the  lithe  spirit  of  the  girl  bends 
under  the  grave  teachings  of  the  Doctor,  it  bends  with 
a  charming  grace,  and  rises  again  smilingly,  when  sober 


A   ROSARY.  149 

speech  is  done,  like  the  floweret  she  is.  And  if  her 
mirth  is  sometimes  irrepressible  through  the  long  hours 
of  their  solemn  Sundays,  it  breaks  up  like  bubbles 
from  the  deep  quiet  bosom  of  a  river,  cheating  even  the 
grave  parson  to  a  smile  that  seems  scarcely  sinful. 

"  Oh,  that  sermon  was  so  long,  —  so  long  to-day,  New 
Papa  !  I  am  sure  Dame  Tourtelot  pinched  the  Deacon,  or 
he  would  never,  never  have  been  awake  through  it  alL" 

Or,  may  be,  she  steals  a  foot  out  of  doors  on  a  Sun 
day  to  the  patch  of  violets,  gathering  a  little  bunch,  and 
appeals  to  the  Doctor,  who  conies  with  a  great  frown  on 
his  face,  — 

"Xew  Papa,  is  it  most  wicked  to  carry  flowers  or 
fennel  to  church  ?  Godmother  always  gave  me  a  flower 
on  holy  days." 

And  the  Doctor  is  cheated  of  his  rebuke  ;  nay,  he  some 
times  wonders,  in  his  self-accusing  moments,  if  the  Arch- 
Enemy  himself  has  not  lodged  under  cover  of  that  smiling 
face  of  hers,  and  is  thus  winning  him  to  a  sinful  gayety. 

There  were  snatches,  too,  of  Latin  hymns,  taught  her 
by  the  godmother,  and  only  half  remembered,  —  hymns 
of  glorious  rhythm,  which,  as  they  tripped  from  her 
halting  tongue,  brought  a  great  burden  of  sacred  mean 
ings,  and  were  full  of  the  tenderest  associations  of  her 
childhood.  To  these,  too,  the  Doctor  was  half  pained  to 
find  himself  listening,  sometimes  at  nightfall  of  a  Sun 
day,  with  an  indulgent  ear,  and  stoutly  querying  with 
himself  if  Satan  could  fairly  lurk  in  such  holy  words  as 

*'  Dulcis  memoria  Jesu." 


ISO  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Adele,  with  that  strong  leaning  which  exists  in  every 
womanly  nature  toward  religious  faith  of  some  kind, 
had  grown  into  a  respect  for  even  the  weightiest  of  the 
Christian  gravities  around  her.  And  if  sometimes,  as  the 
shrill  treble  of  Miss  Almira  smote  upon  her  ear,  she 
craved  a  better  music,  and  remembered  the  fragrant 
cloud  rising  from  silver  censers  as  something  more  grate 
ful  than  the  smoke  leaking  from  the  joints  of  the  stove 
pipe  in  Ashfield  meeting-house,  and  would  have  willing 
ly  given  up  Miss  Eliza's  stately  praises  of  her  recitation 
for  one  good  hug  of  the  godmother,  —  she  yet  saw,  or 
thought  she  saw,  the  same  serene  trust  that  belonged  to 
her  in  the  eyes  of  good  Mistress  Onthank,  in  the  kind 
face  of  Mrs.  Elderkin,  and  in  the  calm  look  of  the  Doc 
tor  when  he  lifted  his  voice  every  night  at  the  parsonage 
in  prayer  for  "all  God's  people." 

Would  it  be  strange,  too,  if  in  the  heart  of  a  gir} 
taught  as  she  has  been,  who  had  never  known  a  mother's 
tenderness,  there  should  be  some  hidden  leaning  toward 
those  traditions  of  the  Romish  faith  in  which  a  holy 
mother  appeared  as  one  whose  favor  was  to  be  sup 
plicated  ?  The  worship  of  the  Virgin  was,  indeed,  too 
salient  an  object  of  attack  among  the  heresies  which 
the  New  England  teachers  combated,  not  to  inspire 
a  salutary  caution  in  Adele  and  entire  concealment  of 
any  respect  she  might  still  feel  for  the  Holy  Mary. 
Nor  was  it  so  much  a  respect  that  shaped  itself  tangibly 
among  her  religious  beliefs  as  a  secret  craving  for  that 
outpouring  of  maternal  love  denied  her  on  earth,  —  a 
craving  which  found  a  certain  repose  and  tender  allevi- 


A   ROSARY.  151 

ation  in  entertaining  fond  regard  for  the  sainted  mother 
of  Christ. 

When,  therefore,  on  one  occasion,  Miss  Eliza  had 
found  among  the  toilet  treasures  of  Adele  a  little  litho 
graphic  print  of  the  Virgin,  with  the  Christ's  head 
surrounded  by  a  nimbus  of  glory,  and  in  her  chilling 
way  had  sneered  at  it  as  a  heathen  vanity,  the  poor 
child  had  burst  into  tears,  and  carried  the  treasure  to 
her  bosom  to  guard  it  from  sacrilegious  touch. 

The  spinster,  rendered  watchful,  perhaps,  by  this  cir 
cumstance,  had  on  another  day  been  still  more  shocked 
to  find  in  a  corner  of  the  escritoire  of  Adele  a  rosary, 
and  with  a  very  grave  face  had  borne  it  down  for  the 
condemnation  of  the  Doctor. 

"  Adaly,  my  child,  I  trust  you  do  not  let  this  bauble 
bear  any  part  in  your  devotions  ?  " 

And  the  Doctor  made  a  movement  as  if  he  would 
have  thrown  it  out  of  the  window. 

"  No,  New  Papa !  "  said  Adele,  darting  toward  him, 
and  snatching  it  from  his  hand,  with  a  fire  in  her  eye 
he  had  never  seen  there  before,  —  a  weUing-up  for  a 
moment  of  the  hot  Provencal  blood  in  her  veins  ;  "de 
grace!  je  vous  en  prie ! "  (in  ecstatic  moments  her 
tongue  ran  to  her  own  land  and  took  up  the  echo  of  her 
first  speech,)  —  then  growing  calm,  as  she  held  it,  and 
looked  into  the  pitying,  wondering  eyes  of  the  poor 
Doctor,  said  only,  "It  was  my  mother's." 

Of  course  the  kind  old  gentleman  never  sought  to 
reclaim  such  a  treasure,  but  in  his  evening  prayer  be 
sought  God  fervently  "to  overrule  all  things,  our  joys, 


152  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

our  sorrows,  our  vain  affections,  our  delight  in  the 
vanities  of  this  world,  our  misplaced  longings,  —  to 
overrule  all  to  His  glory  and  the  good  of  those  that 
love  Him." 

The  Doctor  writes  to  his  friend  Maverick  at  about 
this  date,  — 

"  Your  daughter  is  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  excellent 
health,  and  is  progressing  with  praiseworthy  zeal  in  her 
studies.  I  cannot  too  highly  commend  her  general  de 
portment,  by  which  she  has  secured  the  affection  and 
esteem  of  all  in  the  parish  who  have  formed  an  ac 
quaintance  with  her.  In  respect  of  her  religious  duties, 
she  is  cheerful  and  punctual  in  the  performance  of 
them  ;  and  I  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  they  should 
prove  only  a  '  savor  of  death  unto  death.' 

"  She  is  fast  becoming  a  tall  and  graceful  girl,  and 
it  may  soon  be  advisable  to  warn  her  against  the  van 
ities  that  overtake  those  of  her  age  who  are  still  en 
grossed  with  carnal  things. 

"  A  little  rosary  found  among  her  effects  has  been 
the  occasion  of  some  anxieties  to  my  sister  and  myself, 
lest  she  might  still  have  a  leaning  toward  the  mockeries 
of  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  Babylon  ;  and  I  was  at  first 
disposed  to  remove  it  out  of  her  way.  But  being  ad 
vised  that  it  is  cherished  as  a  gift  of  her  mother,  I  have 
thought  it  not  well  to  take  from  her  the  only  memento 
of  so  near  and,  I  trust,  dear  a  relative. 

"May  God  have  you,  my  friend,  in  His  holy  keep- 
ing!" 


REUBEN  IN  NEW  YORK,  153 

xxvn. 

Reuben  in  New  York. 

REUBEN,  taking  the  advice  of  Captain  Saul,  with 
whom  he  would  cheerfully  have  gone  to  China, 
had  the  sloop  been  bound  thither,  came  back  to  his 
bunk  on  the  first  night  after  a  wandering  stroll  through 
the  lower  part  of  the  city.  It  is  quite  possible  that  he 
would  have  done  the  same,  viewing  the  narrowness  of 
his  purse,  upon  the  second  night,  had  he  not  encoun 
tered  at  noon  a  gentleman  in  close  conversation  with  the 
Captain,  whom  he  immediately  recognized  —  though  he 
had  seen  him  but  once  before  —  as  Mr.  Brindlock. 
This  person  met  him  very  kindly,  and  with  a  hearty 
shake  of  the  hand,  "  hoped  he  would  do  his  Aunt  Mabel 
the  honor  of  coming  to  stay  with  them." 

There  was  an  air  of  irony  in  this  speech  which  Reu 
ben  was  quick  to  perceive  :  and  the  knowing  look  of 
Captain  Saul  at  once  informed  him  that  all  the  romance 
of  his  runaway  voyage  was  at  an  end.  Both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Brindlock  received  him  at  their  home  with  the  ut 
most  kindness,  and  were  vastly  entertained  by  his  story 
of  the  dismal  life  upon  Bolton  Hill,  the  pursuit  of  the 
parson  with  his  white-faced  nag,  and  the  subsequent 
cruise  in  the  sloop  Princess.  Mrs.  Brindlock,  a  good- 
natured,  self-indulgent  woman,  was  greatly  taken  with 
the  unaffected  country  naturalness  of  the  lad,  and  was 


154  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

agreeably  surprised  at  his  very  presentable  appearance  : 
for  Reuben  at  this  date  —  he  may  have  been  thirteen  or 
fourteen  —  was  of  good  height  for  his  years,  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  light,  wavy  hair,  a  thoughtful,  blue  eye,  and  a 
lurking  humor  about  the  lip  which  told  of  a  great  faculty 
for  mischief.  There  was  such  an  absence,  moreover,  in 
this  city  home,  of  that  stiffness  with  which  his  Aunt  Eliza 
had  such  a  marvelous  capacity  for  investing  everything 
about  her,  that  the  lad  found  himself  at  once  strangely 
at  his  ease. 

"Aunt  Mabel,"  he  had  said,  "  I  suppose  you  '11  be  writ 
ing  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  do  please  take  my  part. 
I  can't  go  back  to  that  abominable  Brummem  ;  if  I  do,  I 
shall  only  run  away  again,  and  go  farther  :  do  tell  him 
so." 

"  But  why  could  n't  you  have  stayed  at  home,  pray  ? 
Did  you  quarrel  with  the  little  French  girl?  eh,  Reu 
ben  ?  " 

The  boy  flushed. 

"  Not  with  Adele,  —  never !  " 

Brindlock,  a  shrewd,  successful  merchant,  was,  on  his 
part,  charmed  with  the  adventurous  spirit  of  the  boy, 
and  with  the  Captain's  report  of  the  way  in  which  the 
truant  had  conducted  negotiations  for  the  trip.  From 
all  which  it  came  about,  that  Mrs.  Brindlock,  in  writing 
to  the  Doctor  to  inform  him  of  Reuben's  safe  arrival, 
added  an  urgent  request  that  the  boy  might  be  allowed 
to  pass  the  winter  with  them  in  New  York  ;  in  which 
event  he  could  either  attend  school,  (there  being  an  ex 
cellent  one  in  her  neighborhood,)  or,  if  the  Doctor  pre- 


REUBEN  IN  NEW   YORK.  155 

ferred,  Mr.  Brindlock  could  give  him  some  light  employ 
ment  in  the  counting-room,  and  try  his  capacity  for 
business. 

At  first  thought,  this  proposition  appeared  very  shock 
ing  to  the  Doctor ;  but,  to  his  surprise,  Miss  Eliza  was 
strongly  disposed  to  entertain  it. 

The  Doctor  was  not  fully  persuaded  by  her,  and  took 
occasion  to  consult,  as  was  his  wont  in  practical  affairs, 
his  friend  Squire  Elderkin. 

"I  rather  like  the  plan,"  said  the  Squire,  after  some 
consideration,  —  "  quite  like  it,  Doctor,  —  quite  like 
it. 

"You  see,  Doctor,"  —  and  he  slipped  a  finger  into  a 
button-hole  of  the  good  parson's,  (the  only  man  in  the 
parish  who  would  have  ventured  upon  such  familiarity,) 
—  "I  think  we've  been  a  little  strict  with  Reuben,  —  a 
little  strict.  He  's  a  fine,  frank,  straightfor'ard  lad,  but 
impulsive,  —  impulsive,  Doctor.  Your  father,  the  Major, 
had  a  little  of  it,  —  quicker  blood  than  you  or  I,  Doctor. 
We  can't  wind  up  every  boy  like  a  clock ;  there 's  some 
that  go  with  weights,  and  there's  some  that  go  with 
springs.  Then,  too,  I  think,  Doctor,  there  's  a  little  of 
the  old  Major's  fight  in  the  boy.  I  think  he  has  broken 
over  a  good  many  of  our  rules  very  much  because  the 
rules  were  there,  and  provoked  him  to  try  his  strength. 

"Now,  Doctor,  there's  been  a  good  deal  of  this  kind 
of  thing,  and  our  Aunt  Eliza  puts  her  foot  down  rather 
strongly,  which  won't  be  a  bugbear  to  the  boy  with  Mrs. 
Brindlock ;  besides  which,  there's  your  old  friend,  Rev. 
Dr.  Mowry,  at  the  Fulton-Street  Church  close  by  "  — 


156  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  So  lie  is,  so  he  is,"  said  the  Doctor  ;  "I  had  forgot 
ten  that." 

"And  then,  to  tell  the  truth,  Doctor,  between  you  and 
I,"  (and  the  Squire  was  working  himself  into  some  ear 
nestness,)  "  I  don't  believe  that  all  the  wickedness  in  the 
world  is  cooped  up  in  the  cities.  In  my  opinion,  the 
small  towns  have  a  pretty  fair  sprinkling,  —  a  pretty 
fair  sprinkling,  Doctor.  And  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Doc 
tor,  the  Devil "  (and  he  twitched  upon  the  Doctor's  coat 
as  if  he  were  in  a  political  argument)  "does  n't  confine 
himself  to  large  towns.  He  goes  into  the  rural  dees- 
tricts,  in  my  opinion,  about  as  regularly  as  the  newspa 
pers." 

The  result  was,  that  permission  was  given  for  the  stay 
of  Reuben,  on  condition  that  Mr.  Brindlock  could  give 
him  constant  occupation,  and  that  he  should  be  regular 
in  his  attendance  on  the  Sabbath  at  the  Fulton-Street 
Church.  Shortly  after,  the  Doctor  goes  to  the  city, 
provided,  by  the  watchful  care  of  Miss  Eliza,  with  a 
complete  wardrobe  for  the  truant  boy,  and  bearing  kind 
messages  from  the  household.  But  chiefly  it  is  the 
Doctor's  object  to  give  his  poor  boy  due  admonition  for 
his  great  breach  of  duty,  and  to  insist  upon  his  writing 
to  the  worthy  Mr.  Brummem  a  full  apology  for  his  con 
duct.  He  also  engages  his  friend  of  the  Fulton-Street 
parish  to  have  an  eye  upon  his  son,  and  to  report  to  him 
at  once  any  wide  departure  from  the  good  conduct  he 
promises. 

Reuben  writes  the  apology  insisted  upon  to  Mr, 
Brummem  in  this  style  :  — 


REUBEN  IN  NEW   YORK.  157 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  arn  sorry  that  I  threw  '  Daboll '  in 
your  face  as  I  did,  and  hope  you  will  forgive  the  same. 
"  Yours  respectfully." 

But  after  the  Doctor's  approval  of  this,  the  lad  cannot 
help  adding  a  postscript  of  his  own  to  this  effect :  — 

"  P.  S.  I  hope  old  Whiteface  did  n't  lose  a  shoe 
when  you  drove  out  on  the  river  road  ?  I  saw  you  ;  for 
I  was  sitting  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  eating  Keziah's 
gingerbread.  Please  thank  her,  and  give  my  respects 
to  all  the  fellows." 

Miss  Johns  considers  it  her  duty  to  write  a  line  of  ex 
postulation  to  her  nephew,  which  she  does,  with  fault 
less  penmanship,  in  this  strain  : — 

"AVe  were  shocked  to  hea*.  of  your  misconduct  toward 
the  worthy  Mr.  Brummem.  Your  running  away  was,  I 
think,  uncalled  for,  and  the  embarkment  upon  the  sloop, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  certainly  very  reprehensi 
ble.  I  trust  that  we  shall  hear  only  good  accounts  of 
you  from  this  period  forth,  and  that  you  will  be  duly 
grateful  for  your  father's  distinguished  kindness  in  al 
lowing  you  to  stay  in  New  York.  I  shall  be  happy  to 
have  you  write  to  me  an  occasional  epistle,  and  hope  to 
see  manifest  a  considerable  improvement  in  your  hand 
writing.  Does  Sister  Mabel  wear  her  ermine  cape  this 
winter  ?  Adele  speaks  of  you  often,  and  I  think  misses 
you  very  much  indeed." 

Yet  the  spinster  aunt  was  not  used  to  natter  Reuben 


158  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

with  any  such  mention  as  this.     "What  can  she  mean," 
said  he,  musingly,  "  by  talking  such  stuff  to  me  ?  " 

Phil  Elderkin,  too,  after  a  little,  writes  long  letters 
that  are  full  of  the  daily  boy-life  at  Ashfield :  —  how 
"the  chestnutting  has  been  first-rate  this  year,"  and  he 
has  a  bushel  of  prime  ones  seasoning  in  the  garret ; 

—  how  Sam  Troop,  the  stout  son  of  the  old  postmaster, 
has  had  a  regular  tussle  with  the  master  in  school,  "  hot 
and  heavy,  over  the  benches,  and  all  about,  and  Sam 
was  expelled,  and  old   Crocker   got  a  black   eye,  and, 
darn   him,    he's   got   it    yet"; — and   how    "somebody 
(name  unknown)  tied  a  smallish  tin  kettle  to  old  Hob- 
son's  sorrel  mare's  tail  last  Saturday  night,  and  the  way 
she  went  down  the  street  wras  a  caution  !  "  —  and  how 
Nat  Boody  has  got  a  new  fighting-dog,  and  such  a  ratter  ! 

—  and  how  Suke,  "  the  divine  Suke,  is,  they  say,  going 

to  marry  the  stage-driver.     Sic  transit  gloria  mulie 

something,  —  for  I  '11  be  hanged,  if  I  know  the  proper 
case." 

And  there  are  some  things  this  boisterous  Phil  writes 
in  tenderer  mood  :  —  how  "Rose  and  Adele  are  as  thick 
as  ever,  and  Adele  comes  up  pretty  often  to  pass  an 
evening,  —  glad  enough,  I  guess,  to  get  away  from  Aunt 
Eliza,  —  and  I  see  her  home,  of  course.  She  plays  a 
stiff  game  of  backgammon  ;  she  never  throws  but  she 
makes  a  point ;  she  beats  me." 

And  from  such  letters  the  joyous  shouts  and  merry 
halloos  of  the  Ashfield  boys  come  back  to  him  again  ; 
he  hears  the  rustling  of  the  brook,  the  rumbling  of  the 
mill ;  he  sees  the  wood  standing  on  the  hills,  and  the 


REUBEN  IN  NEW   YORK.  159 

girls  at  the  door-yard  gates ;  and  he  watches  again  the 
glancing  feet  of  Eose  —  who  was  once  Amanda  —  trip 
ping  away  under  the  sycamores  ;  and  the  city  Mortimer 
bethinks  him  of  another  Amanda,  of  browner  hue  and 
in  coquettish  straw,  idling  along  the  same  street,  with 
reticule  lightly  swung  upon  her  finger  ;  and  the  boy  be 
thinks  him  of  tender  things  he  might  have  said  in  the 
character  of  Mortimer,  but  never  did  say,  and  of  kisses 
he  might  have  stolen,  (in  the  character  of  Mortimer,) 
but  never  did  steal. 

And  now  these  sights,  voices,  vagaries,  as  month 
after  month  passes  in  his  new  home,  fade,  —  fade,  yet 
somehow  abide.  The  patter  of  a  thousand  feet  are  011 
the  pavement  around  him.  What  wonder,  if  in  the 
surrounding  din,  the  tranquillity  of  Ashfield,  its  scenes, 
its  sounds,  should  seem  a  mere  dream  of  the  past? 
What  wonder,  if  the  solemn  utterances  from  the  old 
pulpit  should  be  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  new  voices? 
The  few  months  he  was  to  spend  in  their  hearing  run 
into  a  score,  and  again  into  another  score.  Two  or 
three  years  hence  we  shall  meet  him  again,  —  changed, 
certainly ;  but  whether  for  better  or  for  worse  the 
sequel  will  show. 

And  Rose  ?  —  and  Adele  ? 

Well,  well,  we  must  not  overleap  the  quiet  current 
of  our  story.  While  the  May  violets  are  in  bloom,  let 
us  enjoy  them  and  be  thankful ;  and  when  the  autumn 
flowers  are  come  to  take  their  places,  let  us  enjoy  those, 
too,  and  thank  God. 


160  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

xxvm. 

Askfield  Again. 

DOCTOB,  we  miss  Reuby,"  said  the  Tew  partners. 
And  the  good  old  people  said  it  with  feeling,  — 
though,  over  and  over,  at  winter's  dusk,  the  boy  had 
given  a  sharp  rattle  to  their  shop-door,  and  the  warning 
bell  called  them  away  from  their  snug  fire  only  to  see  his 
light  pair  of  heels  whisking  around  the  corner  of  the 
Eagle  Tavern.  The  mischief  in  the  lad  was,  indeed,  of 
such  elastic,  irrepressible  temper,  that  even  the  gravest 
of  the  parishioners  were  disposed  to  regard  it  with  a 
frown  in  which  a  comic  pardon  was  always  lurking. 

Even  the  Tourtelots  "  quite  missed  the  boy  ;  "  though 
over  and  over  the  brindled  cow  of  the  Deacon  was  found 
to  have  slipped  the  bars,  (a  thing  the  orderly  creature 
was  never  known  to  do  of  her  own  head,)  and  was  re 
ported  at  twilight  by  the  sober-faced  Reuben  as  stroll 
ing  far  down  upon  the  Common. 

It  is  but  a  small  bit  of  canvas  we  have  chosen  for  the 
painting  in  of  these  figures  of  ours  ;  and  returning  to 
the  old  town  of  Ashfield,  as  we  do  now,  where  the  cen 
tral  interest  must  lie,  there  is  little  of  change  to  de 
clare,  still  less  of  dramatic  incident. 

The  old  blear-eyed  Boody  is  not  so  cheery  as  we  have 
seen  him,  although  his  party  has  won  brilliant  success. 
There  is  a  sad  story  of  domestic  grief  that  has  marked 


ASHFIELD   AGAIX,  161 

a  new  wrinkle  in  his  forehead  and  given  a  droop  to  his 
eye,  which,  had  all  gone  fairly,  he  might  have  weathered 
for  ten  years  more.  The  glory  of  the  ringleted  Suke 
has  indeed  gone,  as  Phil  had  told ;  but  it  has  not  gone 
in  the  way  of  marriage.  God  only  knows  where  those 
pink  cheeks  are  showing  their  graces  just  now, — not, 
surely,  in  any  home  of  hers,  —  not  in  any  home  at  all. 
But  have  not  the  starched,  good  women  of  the  parish 
been  a  little  disposed  to  count  the  pretty  tavern-keeper's 
daughter  as  outside  the  fold  —  so  far  as  all  social  in 
fluences  were  concerned  —  from  the  beginning? 

Certain  it  is,  that  Miss  Johns  indulged  in  such  scath 
ing  condemnation  of  the  poor  sinner  as  made  Adele 
shiver  :  with  the  spinster  at  least,  there  would  be  little 
hope  for  a  Magdalen,  or  a  child  of  a  Magdalen.  Nor 
could  such  as  she  fully  understand  the  measured  and 
subdued  tone  with  which  the  good  Doctor  talked  of  a 
lapse  from  virtue  which  had  so  shocked  the  little  com 
munity.  But  the  parson  lived  so  closel}*  in  that  spirit 
ual  world  where  all  his  labor  and  love  centered,  that  he 
saw  under  its  ineffable  light  only  two  great  ranks  of 
people  pressing  toward  the  inevitable  goal :  a  lesser 
rank,  which  had  found  favor  of  God ;  and  a  greater, 
tumultuous  one,  toward  whom  his  heart  yearned,  that 
with  wavering  and  doubt  and  evil  intention  pressed  on 
to  destruction.  What  mattered  to  him  the  color  of  the 
sin,  or  who  was  he  to  judge  it  ?  "\Yhen  the  secret  places 
of  the  heart  were  so  full  of  wickedness,  why  anathema 
tize  above  the  rest  those  plague-spots  which  revealed 
themselves  to  mortals?  "Fearful  above  all  others,"  he 
11 


1 62  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

was  wont  to  say,  "  will  be  those  sins  which,  being  kept 
cautiously  smoldering  through  life,  will,  at  the  blast  of 
the  Archangel's  trump,  blaze  out  in  inextinguishable 
fire  ! " 

Though  slow  to  accept  theological  reforms,  the  Doc 
tor  was  not  slow  to  advocate  those  which  promised  good 
influence  upon  public  morals.  Thus  he  had  entered 
with  zeal  into  the  Temperance  movement ;  and  after 
1830,  or  1832  at  the  latest,  there  was  no  private  locker 
in  the  parsonage  for  any  black  bottle  of  choice  Santa 
Cruz.  His  example  had  its  bearing  upon  others  of  the 
parish  ;  and  whether  by  dint  of  the  Doctor's  effective 
preaching,  or  whether  it  were  by  reason  of  the  dilapi 
dated  state  of  the  buildings  and  the  leaky  condition  of  the 
stills,  it  is  certain  that  about  this  time  Deacon  Simmons, 
of  whom  casual  mention  has  been  made,  abandoned  his 
distillery,  and  invested  such  spare  capital  as  he  chose  to 
keep  afloat,  in  the  business  of  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Bow- 
rigg  of  New  York,  who  had  up  to  this  time  sold  the 
Deacon's  gin  upon  commission. 

Mr.  Bowrigg  was  a  thriving  merchant,  and  continued 
his  wholesale  traffic  with  eminent  success.  In  proof  of 
this  success,  he  astonished  the  good  people  of  Ashfield 
by  building,  in  the  summer  of  1833,  at  the  instigation 
of  his  wife,  an  elegant  country  residence  upon  the  main 
street  of  the  town ;  and  the  following  year,  the  young  Bow- 
riggs  —  two  daughters  of  blooming  girl  age  —  brought 
such  a  flutter  of  city  ribbons  and  silks  into  the  main 
aisle  of  the  meeting-house  as  had  not  been  seen  in  many 
a  day.  Anne  and  Sophia  Bowrigg,  aged  respectively 


ASH  FIELD  AGAIN.  163 

thirteen  and  fifteen,  fell  naturally  into  somewhat  intimate 
associations  with  our  little  friends,  Adele  and  Rose  :  an 
association  that  was  not  much  to  the  taste  of  the  Doc 
tor,  who  feared  that  under  it  Adele  might  launch  again 
into  those  old  coquetries  of  dress  against  which  Maver 
ick  had  cautioned  him,  and  which  in  their  quiet  coun 
try  atmosphere  had  been  subdued  into  a  modest  home 
liness  that  was  certainly  very  charming. 

Miss  Sophia,  however,  the  elder  of  the  two  Bowrigg 
daughters,  was  a  young  lady  not  easily  balked  of  her 
intent ;  and  conceiving  a  violent  fondness  for  Adele, 
whether  by  reason  of  the  graces  of  her  character,  or  by 
reason  of  her  foreign  speech,  in  which  she  could  stam- 
meringly  join,  to  the  great  mystification  of  all  others, 
she  soon  forced  herself  into  a  patronizing  intimacy  with 
Adele,  and  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  parsonage. 
With  a  great  fund  of  assurance,  a  rare  and  unappeasa 
ble  glibness  of  tongue,  and  that  lack  of  refined  delicacy 
which  invariably  belongs  to  such  noisy  demonstrative- 
ness,  Miss  Sophia  had  after  only  one  or  two  interviews 
ferreted  out  from  Adele  ah1  that  the  little  stranger  her 
self  knew  respecting  her  history. 

"And  not  to  know  your  mother,  Adele!  that's  so 
very  queer  !  " 

Adele  winces  at  this,  but  seems  —  to  so  coarse  an  ob 
server  —  only  preoccupied  with  her  work. 

"Isn't  it  queer?"  persists  the  garrulous  creature. 
"  I  knew  a  girl  in  the  city  who  did  not  see  her  mother 
after  she  was  three,  —  think  of  that !  But  then,  you 
know,  she  was  a  bad  woman." 


1 64  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

The  hot  Proven9al  blood  mounts  to  the  cheek  and 
brow  of  Adele  in  an  instant,  and  her  eye  flashes.  But  it 
is  quite  impossible  to  show  anger  in  view  of  the  stolid 
face  of  her  companion,  with  nothing  in  it  but  an  un 
thinking,  girlish  curiosity. 

"  We  will  talk  of  something  else,  Sophia." 

"  Oh  !  then  you  don't  like  to  speak  of  it !  Dear  me  ! 
I  certainly  won't,  then." 

But  it  is  by  no  means  the  first  time  the  sensibilities 
of  Adele  have  been  touched  to  the  quick.  She  is  ap 
proaching  that  age  when  they  ripen  with  marvelous 
rapidity.  There  is  never  an  evening  now  at  that  cheer 
ful  home  of  the  Elderkins  —  lighted  up  as  it  is  with 
the  beaming  smiles  of  that  Christian  mother,  Mrs. 
Elderkin  —  but  there  sweeps  over  the  mind  of  the  poor 
girl,  at  some  interval  in  the  games  or  the  chat,  a  terrible 
sense  of  some  great  loss  she  has  suffered,  of  which  she 
knows  not  the  limits,  —  a  cruel  sense  of  isolation  in 
which  she  wanders,  and  on  which  comes  betimes  the 
recollection  of  a  father's  kindly  face,  that  in  the  grow 
ing  distance  makes  her  isolation  seem  even  more  ap 
palling. 

Hose,  good  soul,  detects  these  humors  by  a  keen, 
girlish  instinct,  and  gliding  up  to  her,  passes  her  arm 
around  her,  — 

"What  is  it  now,  Adele,  dear  ?  " 

And  she,  looking  down  at  her,  (for  Adele  was  the 
taller  by  half  a  head,)  says,  — 

"  What  a  good  mother  you  have,  Rose  ! " 

"  Only  that !  "  —  and  Rose  laughs  gleefully  for  a  mo- 


ASH  FIELD   AGAIN.  165 

ment ;  when  bethinking  herself  where  the  secret  grief 
lay,  her  sweet  face  is  overcast  in  an  instant,  and  reach 
ing  up  her  two  hands,  she  draws  down  the  face  of 
Adele  to  hers,  and  kisses  her  on  either  cheek. 

Phil,  who  is  at  a  game  of  chess  with  Grace,  pretends 
not  to  see  this  side  demonstration  ;  but  his  next  move 
is  to  sacrifice  his  only  remaining  castle  in  the  most 
needless  manner. 

Dame  Tourtelot,  too,  has  pressed  her  womanly  pre 
rogative  of  knowing  whatever  could  be  known  about  the 
French  girl  who  comes  occasionally  with  Miss  Eliza  to 
her  tea-driukings,  and  who,  with  a  native  taste  for  music, 
is  specially  interested  in  the  piano  of  Miss  Almira. 

" It  must  be  very  tedious,"  says  the  Dame,  "to  be  so 
long  away  from  home  and  from  those  that  love  you. 
Almiry,  now,  hardly  goes  for  a  week  to  Cousin  Jeru- 
shy's  at  Har'ford  but  she  is  a-frettiu'  to  be  back  in  her 
old  home.  Don't  you  feel  it,  Adeel  ?  "  (The  Dame  is 
not  to  be  driven  out  of  her  own  notions  of  pronun 
ciation  by  any  French  accents.)  "But  don't  be  down 
hearted,  my  child  ;  it 's  God's  providence  that 's  brought 
you  away  from  a  Popish  country." 

The  spinster,  also,  who  is  mistress  of  the  parsonage, 
though  never  giving  up  her  admiring  patronage  of 
Adele,  and  governing  her  curiosity  with  far  more  tact 
than  belongs  to  Dame  Tourtelot,  has  yet  shown  a  per 
sistent  zeal  in  pushing  her  investigations  in  regard  to 
all  that  concerned  the  family  history  of  her  little  pro 
tegee.  She  has  lent  an  eager  ear  to  all  the  communica 
tions  which  Maverick  has  addressed  to  the  Doctor ;  and 


1 66  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

in  moments  of  what  seemed  exceptional  fondness,  when 
she  has  toyed  with  the  head-gear  of  Adele,  has  plied 
the  little  brain  with  motherly  questions  that  have  some 
how  widely  failed  of  their  intent. 

Under  all  this,  Adele  ripens  into  a  certain  reserve  and 
individuality  of  character  which  might  never  have  be 
longed  to  her,  had  the  earlier  circumstances  of  her  life 
been  altogether  familiar  to  the  circle  in  which  she  was 
placed.  The  Doctor  fastens,  perhaps,  an  undue  reli 
ance  upon  this  growing  reserve  of  hers :  sure  it  is  that 
an  increasing  confidence  is  establishing  itself  between 
them,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  nothing  will  shake. 

And  as  for  Phil,  when  the  Squire  teases  him  with  his 
growing  fondness  for  the  little  Jesuit  of  the  parsonage, 
the  boy,  though  past  seventeen  now,  and  "  with  views 
of  his  own,"  (as  most  young  men  have  at  that  age,) 
blushes  like  a  girl. 

Rose,  seeing  it,  and  her  eyes  flashing  with  sisterly 
pride,  says  to  herself,  — 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  may  come  true  !  " 


XXIX. 

Every-day  Life. 

time  to  time  Maverick  had  written  in  reply  to 
the  periodical  reports  of  the  Doctor,  and  always 
with  unabating  confidence  in  his  discretion  and  kind 
ness. 


EVERY-DAY  LIFE.  167 

"  I  have  remarked  what  you  say "  (he  had  written 
thus  in  a  letter  which  had  elicited  the  close  attention  of 
Miss  Eliza)  "  in  regard  to  the  rosary  found  among  the 
girlish  treasures  of  Adele.  I  am  not  aware  how  she  can 
have  come  by  such  a  trinket  from  the  source  named  ; 
but  I  must  beg  you  to  take  as  little  notice  as  possible 
of  the  matter,  and  please  allow  her  possession  of  it  to 
remain  entirely  unmarked." 

Heavy  losses  incident  to  the  political  changes  of  the 
year  1831  in  France  had  kept  him  fastened  at  his  post ; 
and  with  the  reviving  trade  under  the  peaceful  regime 
of  Louis  Philippe,  he  had  been  more  actively  engaged 
even  than  before.  Yet  there  was  no  interruption  to  his 
correspondence  with  Adele,  and  no  falling  off  in  its  ex 
pressions  of  earnest  affection  and  devotion. 

"I  fancy  you  almost  a  woman  grown  now,  dear  Adele. 
Those  cheeks  of  yours  have,  I  hope,  not  lost  their  round 
ness  or  their  rosiness.  But,  however  much  you  may 
have  grown.  I  am  sure  that  my  heart  would  guide  me  so 
truly  that  I  could  single  you  out  from  a  great  crowd  of 
the  little  Puritan  people  about  you.  I  can  fancy  you  in 
some  simple  New  England  dress,  —  gliding  up  the  path 
way  that  leads  to  the  door  of  the  old  parsonage  ;  I  can 
fancy  you  dropping  a  word  of  greeting  to  the  good  Doc 
tor  within  his  study  (he  must  be  wearing  spectacles 
now) ;  and  at  evening  I  seem  to  see  you  kneeling  in  the 
long  back  dining-room,  as  the  parson  leads  in  family 
prayer.  Well,  well,  don't  forget  to  pray  for  your  old 
father,  my  child.  I  shall  be  all  the  safer  for  it,  in  what 
the  Doctor  calls  '  this  wicked  land.'  And  what  of  Reu- 


1 68  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ben,  whose  mischief,  you  told  me,  threatened  such  fear 
ful  results  ?  Sobered  down,  I  suppose,  long  before  this, 
wearing  a  stout  jacket  of  homespun,  driving  home  the 
'  keow  '  at  night,  and  singing  in  the  choir  of  a  Sunday. 
Don't  lose  your  heart,  Adele,  with  any  of  the  youngsters 
about  you.  I  claim  the  whole  of  it. " 

And  Adele  writes  back  :  — 

"  My  heart  is  all  yours,  papa,  —  only  why  do  you 
never  come  and  take  it  ?  So  many,  many  years  that  I 
have  not  seen  you  ! 

"Yes,  I  like  Ashfield  still ;  it  is  almost  a  home  to  me 
now,  you  know.  New  Papa  is  very  kind,  but  just  as 
grave  and  stiff  as  at  the  first.  I  know  he  loves  me, 
but  he  never  tells  me  so.  But  when  I  sing  some  song 
that  he  loves  to  hear,  I  see  a  little  quirk  by  his  temple, 
and  a  glistening  in  his  eye,  as  he  thanks  me,  that  tells  it 
plain  enough  ;  and  most  of  all  when  he  prays,  as  he 
sometimes  does  after  talking  to  me  very  gravely,  with 
his  arm  tight  clasped  around  me,  oh,  I  am  sure  that  he 
loves  me  !  —  and  indeed,  and  indeed,  I  love  him  back 
again  ! 

"  It  was  funny  what  you  said  of  Reuben  ;  for  you 
must  know  that  he  is  living  in  the  city  now,  and  hap 
pens  upon  us  here  sometimes  with  a  very  grand  air,  — 
as  fine,  I  dare  say,  as  the  people  about  Marseilles.  But 
I  don't  think  I  like  him  any  better  ;  I  don't  know  if  I 
like  him  as  well.  Miss  Eliza  is,  of  course,  very  proud 
of  him,  as  she  always  was." 

As  the  nicer  observing  faculties  of  his  child  develop, 
—  of  which  ample  traces  appear  in  her  letters,  —  Maver- 


E  VER  Y-DA  Y  LIFE.  169 

ick  begs  her  to  detail  to  him  as  fully  as  she  can  all  the 
little  events  of  her  every-clay  life.  Sheet  after  sheet  of 
this  simple,  girlish  narrative  of  hers  Maverick  delights 
himself  with,  as  he  sits  upon  his  balcony,  after  business 
hours,  looking  down  upon  the  harbor  of  Marseilles. 

"After  morning  prayers,  which  are  very  early,  you 
know,  Esther  places  the  smoking  dishes  on  the  table, 
and  New  Papa  asks  a  blessing,  —  always.  Then  he  says, 
'I  hope  Adaly  has  not  forgotten  her  text  of  yesterday.' 
And  I  repeat  it  to  him.  Such  a  quantity  of  tests  as  I 
can  repeat  now  !  Then  Aunt  Eliza  says,  '  I  hope,  too, 
that  Adele  will  make  no  mistake  in  her  "  Paradise  Lost" 
to-day.  Are  you  sure  you  Ye  not  forgotten  that  lesson 
in  the  parsing,  child  ? '  Indeed,  papa,  I  can  parse  al 
most  any  page  in  the  book. 

"  *  I  think,'  says  New  Papa,  appealing  to  Miss  Eliza, 
'  that  Larkin  may  grease  the  wheels  of  the  chaise  this 
morning,  and,  if  it  should  be  fair,  I  will  make  a  visit  or 
two  at  the  north  end  of  the  town  ;  and  I  guess  Adaly 
would  like  to  go  with  me.' 

"'Yes,  dearly,  New  Papa,'  I  say,  —  which  is  very 
true. 

"And  Miss  Eliza  says,  very  gravely,  'lam  perfectly 
willing,  Doctor.' 

"After  breakfast  is  over,  Miss  Eliza  will  sometimes 
walk  with  me  a  short  way  down  the  street,  and  will 
say  to  me,  'Hold  yourself  erect,  Adele;  walk  trimly.' 
She  walks  very  trimly.  Then  we  pass  by  the  Hapgood 
house,  which  is  one  of  the  grand  houses  ;  and  I  know 
the  old  Miss  Hapgood s  are  looking  through  the  blinds 


i?o  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

at  us,  though  they  never  show  themselves  until  they 
have  taken  out  their  curl-papers  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Dame  Tourtelot  is  n't  so  shy  ;  and  we  see  her  great, 
gaunt  figure  in  a  broad  sun-bonnet,  stooping  down 
with  her  trowel,  at  work  among  the  flower-patches  be 
fore  her  door;  and  Miss  Almira  is  reading  at  an  upper 
window,  in  pink  muslin.  And  when  the  Dame  hears  us, 
she  lifts  herself  straight,  sets  her  old  flapping  bonnet  as 
square  as  she  can,  and  stares  through  her  spectacles 
until  she  has  made  us  out ;  then  says,  — 

'"Good  mornin',  Miss  Johns.  You  're  'arly  this 
inornin'.' 

"'Quite  early,'  says  Miss  Eliza.  'Your  flowers  are 
looking  nicely,  Mrs.  Tourtelot.' 

"  'Well,  the  pi'nys  is  blowed  pretty  good.  Wouldn't 
Adeel  like  a  pi'ny  ?  ' 

"  It 's  a  great  red  monster  of  a  flower,  papa  ;  but  I 
thank  her  for  it,  and  put  it  in  my  belt.  Then  the  Dame 
goes  on  to  tell  how  she  has  shifted  the  striped  grass, 
and  how  the  bouncing-Bets  are  spreading,  and  where 
she  means  to  put  her  Nasturtiums  the  next  year,  and 
brandishes  her  trowel,  as  the  brigands  in  the  story-books 
Sjrandish  their  swords. 

"  And  Miss  Eliza  says,  '  Almira  is  at  her  reading,  I 
see.' 

" '  Dear  me  ! '  says  the  Dame,  glancing  up  ;  '  she 's 
always  a-readin'.  What  with  novils  and  histories,  she  's 
injurin'  her  health,  Miss  Johns,  as  sure  as  you're  alive.' 

''Then,  as  we  set  off  again,  —  the  Dame  calling  out 
last  word,  and  brandishing  her  trowel  over  the 


E  VER  Y-DA  Y  LIFE.  1 7 1 

fence,  —  old  Squire  Elderkin  comes  swinging  up  the 
street  with  the  '  Courant '  in  his  hand  ;  and  he  lifts  his 
hat,  and  says,  '  Good  morning  to  you,  Miss  Johns ;  and 
how  is  the  little  French  lady  this  morning  ?  Bright  as 
ever,  I  see,'  (for  he  does  n't  wait  to  be  answered,)  —  *  a 
peony  in  her  belt,  and  two  roses  in  her  cheeks.'  Yet 
my  cheeks  are  not  very  red,  papa  ;  but  it's  his  way.  .  . 

"After  school,  I  go  for  the  drive  with  the  Doctor,  which 
I  enjoy  very  much.  I  ask  him  about  all  the  flowers 
along  the  way,  and  he  tells  me  every  thing,  and  I  have 
learned  the  names  of  all  the  birds  ;  and  it  is  much  bet 
ter,  I  think,  than  learning  at  school.  And  he  always 
says,  'It's  God's  infinite  love,  my  child,  that  has  given 
us  all  these  beautiful  things.'  When  I  hear  him  say  it,  I 
believe  it,  papa. 

"  Then,  very  often,  he  lifts  my  hand  in  his,  and  says, 
*  Adaly,  niy  dear,  God  is  very  good  to  us.  We  cannot 
tell  His  meaning  always,  but  wre  may  be  very  sure  that 
He  has  only  a  good  meaning.  You  do  not  know  it, 
Adaly,  but  there  was  once  a  dear  one,  whom  I  loved  per 
haps  too  well  ;  —  she  was  the  mother  of  my  poor  Keu- 
ben  ;  God  only  knows  how  I  loved  her !  But  He  took 
her  from  me. '  —  Oh,  how  the  hand  of  New  Papa  griped 
on  mine,  when  he  said  this !  —  'He  took  her  from  me, 
my  child  ;  He  has  carried  her  to  His  home.  He  is  just 
Learn  to  love  Him,  Adaly.' 

"  '  I  do !  I  do  ! '  I  said. 

"  But  then,  directly  after,  he  repeated  to  me  some  of 
those  dreary  things  I  had  been  used  to  hear  in  the  Cate 
chism  week  after  week. 


172  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  '  Don't  tell  me  that,  New  Papa,'  said  I,  '  it  is  so  old  ; 
talk  to  me  as  you  were  talking.' 

"  And  then  the  Doctor  looked  at  me  with  the  keenest 
eyes  I  ever  saw,  and  said,  — 

"  '  My  child,  are  you  right,  and  are  the  Doctors  wrong? 3 

"  '  Is  it  the  Catechism  that  you  call  the  Doctors  ? '  said  I. 

"'Yes,'  said  he. 

"  '  But  were  they  better  men  than  you,  New  Papa  ? ' 

"  'All  men  alike,  Adaly,  all  straggling  toward  the 
truth,  —  all  wearying  themselves  to  interpret  it  in  such 
way  that  the  world  may  accept  it.  And  at  this  he  took 
my  hand  and  said,  'tAdaly,  trust  Him  ! ' 

" By  this  time"  (for  Adele's  letter  is  a  true  transcript 
of  a  day)  "we  have  reached  the  door  of  some  one  of  his 
people  to  whom  he  is  to  pay  a  visit.  The  blinds  are  all 
closed,  and  nothing  seems  to  be  stirring  but  a  gray  cat 
that  is  prowling  about  under  the  lilac  bushes.  Dobbins 
is  hitched  to  the  post,  and  the  Doctor  pounds  away  at 
the  big  knocker.  Presently  two  or  three  white-headed 
children  come  peeping  around  the  bushes,  and  rush 
away  to  tell  who  has  come.  After  a  little  the  stout 
mistress  opens  the  door,  and  wipes  her  fingers  on  her 
apron,  and  shakes  hands,  and  bounces  into  the  keeping- 
room  to  throw  up  the  window  and  open  the  blinds,  and 
dusts  off  the  great  rocking  chair  for  the  Doctor,  and 
keeps  saying  all  the  while  that  they  are  '  very  back'ard 
with  the  spring  work,  and  she  really  had  no  time  to 
slick  up,'  and  asks  after  Miss  Eliza  and  Reuben,  and  the 
Tourtelots,  and  all  the  people  on  the  street,  so  fast  that 
I  wonder  she  can  keep  her  breath  ;  and  the  Doctor  looks 


E  VER  Y-DA  Y  LIFE.  1 73 

so  calm,  and  has  no  time  to  say  anything  yet.  Then  she 
looks  at  me,  '  Sissy  is  looking  well/  says  she,  and  dashes 
out  to  bring  in  a  great  plate  of  gingerbread,  which  I 
never  like  at  all,  and  say,  'No.'  But  she  says,  'It  won't 
hurt  ye  ;  it  a'n't  p'ison,  child.'  So  I  find  I  must  eat  a 
little  ;  and  while  I  sit  mumbling  it,  the  Doctor  and  she 
talk  on  about  a  great  deal  I  don't  understand,  and  I  am 
glad  when  she  bounces  up  again,  and  says,  '  Sis  would 
like  to  get  some  posies,  p'raps,'  and  leads  me  out  of 
doors.  '  There  's  lalocs,  child,  and  flower-de-luce,  pick 
what  you  want.' 

"So  I  go  wandering  among  the  beds  along  the  gar 
den,  with  the  bees  humming  around  me  ;  and  there  are 
great  tufts  of  blue-bell,  and  spider-wort,  and  moss- 
pink  ;  and  the  white-haired  grandchildren  come  and  put 
their  faces  to  the  paling,  looking  at  me  through  the 
bars  like  animals  in  a  cage  ;  and  if  I  beckon  to  them, 
they  glance  at  each  other,  and  dash  away." 

Thus  much  of  Adele's  account.  But  there  are  three 
or  four  more  visits  to  complete  the  parson's  day.  Pos 
sibly  he  comes  upon  some  member  of  his  flock  in  the 
field,  when  he  draws  up  Dobbins  to  the  fence,  and  his 
parishioner,  spying  the  old  chaise,  leaves  his  team  to 
blow  a  moment  while  he  strides  forward  with  his  long 
ox-goad  in  hand,  and,  seating  himself  upon  a  stump 
within  easy  earshot,  says,  — 

"Good  momin',  Doctor." 

And  the  parson,  in  his  kindly  way,  "  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Pettibone.  Your  family  pretty  well  ?  " 

"Waal,  middlin',  Doctor,  — only middlin'.     Miss  Pet- 


174  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

tibone  is  a-havin'  faintish  spells  along  back ;  complains 
o'  pain  in  her  side." 

"  Sorry,  sorry,"  says  the  good  man  :  and  then,  "  Your 
team  is  looking  pretty  well,  Mr.  Pettibone." 

"  Waal,  only  tol'able,  Doctor.  That  nigh  ox,  what 
with  spring  work  an'  grass  feed  is  gittin'  kind  o'  thin  in 
the  flesh.  Any  news  abaout,  Doctor  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  learn,  Mr.  Pettibone.  We're  having  fine 
growing  weather  for  your  crops." 

"Waal,  only  tol'able,  Doctor.  You  see,  arter  them 
heavy  spring  rains,  the  sun  has  kind  o'  baked  the 
graound  ;  the  seed  don't  seem  to  start  well.  I  don't 
know  as  you  remember,  but  in  '29,  along  in  the  spring, 
we  had  jist  sich  a  spell  o'  wet,  an'  corn  hung  back  that 
season  amazin'ly." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Pettibone,  we  must  hope  for  the  best : 
it's  all  in  God's  hands." 

"  Waal,  I  s'pose  it  is,  Doctor,  — I  s'pose  it  is."  And 
he  makes  a  cut  at  a  clover-head  with  the  lash  upon  his 
ox-goad ;  then  —  as  if  in  recognition  of  the  change  of 
subject  —  he  says,  — 

"Any  more  talk  on  the  street  abaout  repairin'  the 
ruff  o'  the  meetin'-house,  Doctor  ?  " 

At  sundown,  all  visits  being  paid,  they  go  jogging 
into  town  again,  —  the  Doctor  silent  by  this  time,  and 
thinking  of  his  sermon.  Dobbins  is  tied  always  at  the 
same  post,  —  always  the  hitch-rein  buckled  in  the  third 
hole  from  the  end. 

After  tea,  perhaps,  Phil  and  Rose  come  sauntering  by, 
and  ask  if  Adele  will  go  up  "  to  the  house  "  ?  Which 


E  VER  Y-DA  Y  LIFE.  1 7  5 

request,  if  Miss  Eliza  meet  it  with  a  nod  of  approval, 
puts  Adele  by  their  side  ;  Rose,  with  a  beautiful  reck 
lessness  common  to  New  England  girls  of  that  day, 
wearing  her  hat  drooping  half  down  her  neck,  and  bar 
ing  her  clear  forehead  to  the  falling  night-dews.  Phil, 
with  a  pebble  in  his  hand,  makes  a  feint  of  throwing  into 
a  flock  of  goslings  that  are  waddling  disturbedly  after  a 
pair  of  staid  old  geese,  but  is  arrested  by  Rose's  prompt 
"  Behave,  Phil !  " 

The  Squire  is  reading  his  paper  by  the  evening  lamp, 
but  cannot  forbear  a  greeting  to  Adt-le  :  — 

"  Ah,  here  we  are  again  !  and  how  is  Madamoizel  ?  " 
(this  is  the  Squire's  style  of  French,)  —  "and  has  she 
brought  me  the  peony?  Phil  would  have  given  his 
head  for  it,  —  eh,  Phil?" 

Rose  is  so  bright,  and  glowing,  and  happy ! 

Mrs.  Elderkin  in  her  rocking-chair,  with  her  gray  hair 
carefully  plaited  under  the  white  lace  cap  whose  broad 
strings  fall  on  either  shoulder,  is  a  picture  of  motherly 
dignity.  Her  pleasant  "  Good-evening,  Adele,"  would 
alone  have  paid  the  warm-hearted  exile  for  her  walk. 

Then  follow  games,  chat,  and  an  occasional  noisy  joke 
from  the  Squire,  until  the  nine  o'clock  town -bell  gives 
warning,  and  Adele  wends  homeward  under  convoy  of 
the  gallant  Phil. 

"Good-night,,  Adele !" 

"Good-night,  Phil!" 

Only  this  at  the  gate.  Then  the  Doctor's  evening 
prayer  ;  and  after  it,  —  in  the  quiet  chamber,  where  her 
sweet  head  lay  upon  the  pillow,  —  drean 


1 76  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

XXX. 

New  Prospects. 

IN  the  autumn  of  1836,  Maverick  wrote  to  his  friend, 
the  Doctor,  that  in  view  of  the  settled  condition  of 
business,  he  intended  to  visit  America  some  time  in  the 
course  of  the  following  season. 

"Above  all,"  he  writes,  "I  wish  to  see  Adele  as  she  is, 
without  any  note  of  preparation.  You  will  therefore, 
I  beg,  my  dear  Johns,  keep  from  her  scrupulously  all 
knowledge  of  my  present  intentions,  (which  may  pos 
sibly  miscarry,  after  all,)  and  let  me  see,  to  the  very 
finest  touch,  whether  of  a  ribbon  or  of  a  ringlet,  how 
far  you  have  New-Englandized  my  dear  girl. 

"  It  is  quite  possible  that  I  may  manage  for  her  return 
with  me,  (of  this  plan,  too,  I  beg  you  to  give  no  hint,) 
and  in  view  of  it  I  would  suggest  that  any  available  oc 
casion  be  seized  upon  to  revive  her  knowledge  of  French, 
which,  I  fear,  in  your  staid  household,  she  may  almost 
have  forgotten.  Tell  dear  Adele  that  I  am  sometimes  at 
Le  Pin,  where  her  godmother  never  fails  to  inquire  after 
her,  and  bless  the  dear  child." 

Upon  this  the  Doctor  and  Miss  Johns  take  counsel. 
Bofch  are  not  a  little  disturbed.  The  grave  Doctor  finds 
his  heart  wrapped  about  by  the  winning  ways  of  the  lit 
tle  stranger  in  a  manner  he  could  hardly  have  conceived 
possible. 


NEW  PROSPECTS.  177 

The  spinster,  though  she  has  become  unconsciously 
attached  to  Adele  is  yet  not  so  much  disconcerted  by  the 
thought  of  any  violence  to  her  affections,  —  for  all  vio 
lence  of  this  kind  she  has  schooled  herself  to  regard 
with  cool  stoicism,  —  but  the  possible  interruption  of  her 
ambitious  schemes  with  respect  to  Reuben  and  Adele 
discomposes  her.  Such  a  scheme  she  has  never  given 
over  for  one  moment.  No  plan  of  hers  is  ever  given  over 
lightly.  The  growing  intercourse  with  the  Elderkins,  in 
view  of  the  evident  devotion  of  Phil,  has  been,  indeed, 
the  source  of  a  little  uneasiness  ;  but  even  this  intimacy 
she  has  moderated  to  a  certain  degree  by  occasional  ju 
dicious  fears  in  regard  to  Adele's  exposure  to  the  night 
air  ;  and  has  made  the  most  —  in  her  quiet  manner  — 
of  Phil's  exceptional,  but  somewhat  noisy,  attentions  to 
that  dashing  girl,  Sophia  Bowrigg. 

But,  like  most  cool  schemers  in  what  concerns  the  af 
fections,  she  makes  her  errors.  Her  assurance  in  regard 
to  the  improved  habits  and  character  of  Reuben,  and 
her  iteration  of  the  wonderful  attachment  which  the 
Brindlocks  bear  to  the  lad,  have  a  somewhat  strained 
air  to  the  ear  of  Adele.  And  when  the  spinster  says,  — 
folding  up  his  last  letter,  —  "  Good  fellow  !  always  some 
tender  little  message  for  you,  my  dear,"  Adele  thinks  — 
as  most  girls  of  her  age  would  be  apt  to  think  —  that  she 
would  like  to  see  the  tender  message  with  her  own  eyes. 

But  what  of  the  French  ?     Where  is  there  to  be  found 
a   competent  teacher?    Not,  surely,   in  Ashfield.     Miss 
Eliza,  with  grave  doubts,  however,  suggests  a  winter  in 
New  York  with  the  Brindlocks. 
12 


178  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Even  Adele,  attracted  by  the  novelty  of  the  proposed 
situation,  urged  her  claim  in  the  cheeriest  little  manner 
conceivable. 

"  Only  for  the  winter,  New  Papa  ;  please  say  '  Yes '  !  " 

And  the  tender  hands  patted  the  grave  face,  as  she 
seated  herself  with  a  childish  coquetry  upon  the  elbow 
of  his  chair. 

"Impossible,  quite  impossible,"  says  the  Doctor. 
"  You  are  too  dear  to  me,  Adaly." 

"  Oh,  now,  New  Papa,  you  don't  mean  that,  —  not 
positively?"  —  and  the  winning  fingers  tap  his  cheek 
again. 

But  for  this  time,  at  least,  Adele  is  to  lose  her  claim  ; 
the  Doctor  well  knows  that  to  suffer  such  endearments 
were  to  yield  ;  so  he  rises  brusquely,  — 

"  I  must  be  just,  my  child,  to  the  charge  your  father 
has  imposed  upon  me.  It  cannot  be." 

It  will  not  be  counted  strange,  if  a  little  ill-disguised 
petulance  appeared  in  the  face  of  Adele  that  day  and 
the  next. 

The  winter  of  1836-7  was  a  very  severe  one  through 
out  New  England.  Perhaps  it  was  in  view  of  its  sever 
ity,  that,  on  or  about  New  Year's  Day,  there  cams  to  the 
parsonage  a  gift  from  Reuben  for  Adele,  in  the  shape  of 
a  fur  tippet,  very  much  to  the  gratification  of  Miss  Eliza 
and  to  the  pleasant  surprise  of  the  Doctor. 

Rose  and  Phil,  sitting  by  the  fire  next  day,  Rose  says, 
in  a  timid  voice,  with  less  than  her  usual  sprightliness,  — 

"Do  you  know  who  has  sent  a  beautiful  fur  tippet  to 
Adele,  Phil?" 


NEW  PROSPECTS.  179 

"  No, "  says  Phil,  briskly.     "  Who  ?  " 

"  Eeuben,"  says  Rose,  —  in  a  tone  as  if  a  blush  ran 
over  her  face  at  the  utterance. 

If  there  was  one,  however,  Phil  could  not  have  seen  it ; 
he  was  looking  steadfastly  into  the  fire,  and  said  only, — 

"I  don't  care." 

A  little  after,  (nothing  having  been  said,  meantime,) 
he  has  occasion  to  rearrange  the  wood  upon  the  hearth, 
and  does  it  with  such  preposterous  violence  that  the 
timid  little  voice  beside  him  says,  — 

"  Don't,  Phil,  be  angry  with  the  fire  !  " 

It  was  a  winter,  as  we  have  said,  for  fur  tippets  and 
for  glowing  cheeks  ;  and  Adele  had  now  been  long 
enough  under  a  Northern  sky  to  partake  of  that  exhil 
aration  of  spirits  which  belongs  to  every  true-born  New 
Englander  in  presence  of  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
snow-storms,  which,  all  through  the  day  and  through 
the  night,  sifts  out  from  the  gray  sky  its  fleecy  crystals, 
—  covering  the  frosted  high-roads,  covering  the  withered 
grasses,  covering  the  whole  summer's  wreck  in  one  glori 
ous  white  burial ;  and  after  it,  keen  frosty  mornings, 
the  pleasant  jingling  of  scores  of  bells,  jets  of  white  va 
por  from  the  nostrils  of  the  prancing  horses,  and  a  quick 
electric  tingle  to  the  blood,  that  makes  every  pulse  beat 
a  thanksgiving. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  black  shadow  fell  upon  the 
little  town.  News  came  overland  (the  river  being 
closed),  that  Mrs  Bowrigg,  after  an  illness  of  three  days, 
was  dead  ;  and  the  body  of  the  poor  woman  was  to  come 
home  for  burial. 


i8o  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

With  the  opening  of  the  spring  the  towns-people  were 
busy  with  the  question,  if  the  Bowriggs  would  come 
again  to  occupy  their  summer  residence,  that,  with  its 
closed  doors  and  windows,  was  mournfully  silent.  But 
soon  the  gardeners  were  set  to  work  ;  it  was  understood 
that  a  housekeeper  had  been  engaged,  and  the  family 
were  to  occupy  it  as  usual.  Sophia  writes  to  Adele,  con 
firming  it  all,  and  adding,  —  "  Madame  Aries,  our  new 
French  teacher  —  delightful  accent  —  only  a  li ttle  time 
arrived,  has  proposed  to  make  us  a  visit ;  which  papa 
hearing,  and  wishing  us  to  keep  up  our  studies,  has 
given  her  an  invitation  to  pass  the  summer  with  us.  She 
says  she  will.  I  am  so  glad !  We  had  told  her  very 
much  of  you,  and  I  know  she  will  be  delighted  to  have 
you  as  a  scholar." 

At  this  Adele  feels  a  thrill  of  satisfaction,  and  looks 
longingly  forward  to  the  time  when  she  shall  hear  again 
from  native  lips  the  language  of  her  childhood. 

"Mafille!  mafille!" 

The  voices  of  her  early  home  seem  to  ring  again  in 
her  ear.  She  basks  once  more  in  the  delicious  flow  of 
the  sunshine,  and  the  perfume  of  the  orange-blossoms 
regales  her. 

—''•Mafille!" 

Is  it  the  echo  of  your  voice,  good  old  godmother,  that 
comes  rocking  over  the  great  reach  of  the  sea,  and  so 
touches  the  heart  of  the  exile  ? 


A   NEW  PERSONAGE.  181 

XXYT. 

A  New  Personage. 

MADAME  ARLES  was  a  mild  and  quiet  little 
woman,  with  a  singular  absence  of  that  vivacity 
which  most  people  are  disposed  to  attribute  to  all  of 
French  blood.  Her  age  —  so  far  as  one  could  judge 
from  outward  indications  —  might  have  been  anywhere 
from  twenty-eight  to  forty.  There  were  no  wrinkles  in 
that  smooth,  calm  forehead  of  hers;  and  if  there  were 
lines  of  gray  amid  her  hair,  this  indication  of  age  was  so 
contradicted  by  the  youthfulness  of  her  eye,  that  a  keen 
observer  would  have  been  disposed  to  attribute  it  rather 
to  some  weight  of  past  grief  that  had  left  its  silvery  im 
print  than  to  the  mere  burden  of  her  years. 

If  past  griefs  have  belonged  to  her,  however,  they 
have  become  long  since  a  part  of  her  character  ;  they 
are  in  no  way  obtrusive.  There  was,  indeed,  a  singular 
cast  in  one  of  her  eyes,  wrhich  in  moments  of  excitement 
—  such  few  as  came  over  her  —  impressed  the  observer 
very  strangely  ;  as  if,  while  she  looked  straight  upon  you 
and  calmly  with  one  eye,  the  other  were  bent  upon  some 
scene  far  remote  and  out  of  range,  some  past  episode  it 
might  be  of  her  own  life,  by  over-dwelling  upon  which 
she  had  brought  her  organs  of  sight  into  this  tortured 
condition.  Nine  out  of  ten  observers,  however,  would 
never  have  remarked  the  peculiarity  we  have  mentioned, 


i82  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

and  would  only  have  commented  upon  Madame  Aries 
—  if  they  had  commented  at  all —  as  a  quiet  person,  in 
whom  youth  and  age  seemed  just  now  to  struggle  for 
the  mastery,  and  in  whom  no  trace  of  French  birth  and 
rearing  was  apparent,  save  her  speech,  and  a  certain 
wonderful  aptitude  in  the  arrangement  of  her  dress.  The 
poor  lady,  moreover,  who  showed  traces  of  a  vanished 
beauty,  was  not  strong,  and  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  had 
readily  accepted  the  relief  afforded  by  this  summer  vaca 
tion  with  two  of  her  city  pupils.  A  violent  palpitation 
of  the  heart,  after  sudden  or  undue  exertion  or  excite 
ment,  shook  the  poor  woman's  frail  hold  upon  life. 
Possibly  from  this  cause  —  as  is  the  case  with  many  who 
are  compelled  to  listen  to  those  premonitory  raps  of  the 
grim  visitor  at  the  very  seat  of  life  —  Madame  Aries  was 
a  person  of  strong  religious  proclivities. 

Adele,  accompanied  by  her  friend  Rose,  —  who,  not 
withstanding  the  quiet  remonstrances  of  the  Doctor,  had 
won  her  mother's  permission  for  such  equipment  in 
French  as  she  could  gain  from  a  summer's  teaching,  — 
went  with  early  greeting  to  the  Bowriggs.  The  curios 
ity  of  Adele  was  intense  to  listen  to  the  music  of  her 
native  speech  once  more  ;  and  when  Madame  Aries 
slipped  quietly  into  the  room,  Adele  darted  toward  her 
with  warm,  girlish  impulse,  and  the  poor  woman,  excited 
beyond  bounds  by  this  heartiness  of  greeting,  and  mur 
muring  some  tender  words  of  endearment,  had  present 
ly  folded  her  to  her  bosom. 

Adele,  blushing  as  much  with  pleasure  as  with  a 
half-feeling  of  mortification  at  the  wild  show  of  feeling 


A    XEW  PERSONAGE.  183 

she  had  made,  was  stammering  her  apology,  when  she 
was  arrested  by  a  sudden  change  in  the  aspect  of  her 
new  friend. 

"  MY  dear  Madame,  you  are  suffering  ?  " 

"A  little,  my  child!" 

It  was  too  true,  as  the  quick  glance  of  her  old  pupils 
saw  in  an  instant.  Her  lips  were  pinched  and  blue  ; 
that  strange  double  look  in  her  eyes,  —  one  fastened 
upon  Adele,  and  the  other  upon  vacancy  ;  her  hands 
clasped  over  hor  heart  as  if  to  stay  its  mad  throbbings. 
While  Sophia  supported  and  conducted  the  sufferer  to 
her  own  chamber,  the  younger  sister  explained  to  Adele 
that  such  spasmodic  attacks  were  of  frequent  occurrence. 

Nothing  more  was  needed  to  enlist  Adele's  sympathies 
to  the  full.  She  carried  home  the  story  of  it  to  the  Doc 
tor,  and  detailed  it  in  such  an  impassioned  way,  and 
with  such  interpretation  of  the  kind  lady's  reception  of 
herself,  that  the  Doctor  was  touched,  and  abated  no 
small  measure  of  the  prejudice  he  had  been  disposed  to 
entertain  against  the  Frenchwoman. 

But  her  heresies  in  the  matter  of  religion  remained, 
—  it  being  no  secret  that  Madame  Aries  was  thoroughly 
Popish  ;  and  these  disturbed  the  good  Doctor  the  more, 
as  he  perceived  the  growing  and  tender  intimacy  which 
was  establishing  itself,  week  by  week,  between  Adele 
and  her  new  teacher.  Indeed,  he  has  not  sanctioned 
this  without  his  own  private  conversation  with  Madame, 
in  which  he  has  set  forth  his  responsibility  respecting 
Adele  and  the  wishes  of  her  father,  and  insisted  upon 
entire  reserve  of  Madame's  religious  opinions  in  her 


i  84  DOCTOR    JOHNS, 

intercourse  with  his  protegee.  All  which  the  poor  lady 
had  promised  with  a  ready  zeal  that  surprised  the 
minister. 

"It  is  that  I  know  too  little.  Doctor ;  I  could  wish 
she  might  be  better  than  I.  May  God  make  her  so  ! " 

"  I  do  not  judge  you,  Madame  ;  it  is  not  ours  to 
judge  ;  but  I  would  keep  Adaly  securely,  if  God  permit, 
in  the  faith  which  we  reverence  here,  and  which  I  much 
fear  she  could  never  learn  in  her  own  land  or  her  own 
language." 

"  May  be,  may  be,  my  good  Doctor ;  her  faith  shall 
not  be  overset  by  me  ;  I  promise  it." 

Adele,  with  her  quick  ear  and  eye,  has  no  difficulty  in 
discovering  the  ground  of  the  Doctor's  uneasiness  and 
of  Miss  Eliza's  frequent  questionings  in  regard  to  her 
intercourse  with  the  new  teacher. 

"I  am  sure  they  think  you  very  bad,"  she  said  to 
Madame  Aries,  one  day,  in  a  spirit  of  mischief. 

"  Bad  !  bad  !  Adele,  why  ?  how  ?  "  —  and  that  strange 
tortuous  look  came  to  her  eye,  with  a  quick  flush  to  her 
cheeks. 

"  Ah,  now,  dear  Madame,  don't  be  disturbed  ;  't  is 
only  your  religion  they  think  so  bad,  and  fear  you  will 
mislead  me.  Tenez  !  this  little  rosary  "  (and  she  displays 
it  to  the  eye  of  the  wondering  Madame  Aries)  "  they 
would  have  taken  from  me." 

Madame  pressed  the  beads  reverently  to  her  lips. 

"  And  you  did  demand  it,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Not  for  any  faith  I  had  in  it ;  but  it  was  my 
mother's." 


MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS.  185 

The  good  woman  kissed  Adele. 

"  It  must  be  that  you  long  to  see  her,  my  child  ! '' 

A  shade  of  sorrow  and  doubt  ran  over  the  face  of  the 
girl.  This  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  Madame  Aries, 
who,  with  a  dejected  and  distracted  air,  replaced  the 
rosary  in  her  hands. 

"  Mon  ange  !  "  (in  this  winsome  way  she  was  accus 
tomed  at  times  to  address  Adele)  "we  cannot  talk  of 
these  things.  I  have  promised  so  much  to  the  Doctor  ; 
it  is  better  so  ;  he  is  a  good  man." 

Adele  sat  toying  for  a  moment  with  the  rosary  upon 
her  fingers,  looking  down  ;  then,  seeing  that  woe-begone 
expression  that  had  fastened  upon  the  face  of  her  com 
panion,  she  sprang  up,  kissed  her  forehead,  and,  restor 
ing  thus  —  as  she  knew  she  could  do  —  a  cheeriness  to 
her  manner,  resumed  her  lesson. 


XXXII. 

Maverick  He-appears. 

TN  the  summer  of  1837,  Maverick  determined  to  sail 
-*-  for  America,  and  to  make  good  his  promise  of  a 
visit  to  the  Doctor  and  Adele. 

He  shows  no  more  appearance  of  age  than  when  we 
saw  him  years  before,  placing  his  little  offering  of 
flowers  upon  the  breakfast-table  of  poor  Rachel,  —  an 
excellently  well-preserved  man,  —  dressed  always  in  that 


1 86  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

close  conformity  to  the  existing  mode  which  of  itself 
gives  a  young  air,  —  regulating  all  his  table  indulgences 
with  the  same  precision  with  which  he  governs  his  busi 
ness, —  using  all  the  appliances  of  flesh-brushes  and  salt- 
baths  to  baffle  any  insidious  ailment,  —  a  strong,  hale, 
cheery  man,  who  would  have  ranked  by  a  score  (judging 
from  his  exterior)  younger  than  the  Doctor. 

Shall  we  look  for  a  moment  at  the  French  home 
which  Maverick  is  leaving?  A  compact  country-house 
of  yellow  stone  upon  a  niche  of  the  hills  that  overlook 
the  blue  Bay  of  Lyons  ;  a  green  arbor  over  the  walk 
leading  to  the  door ;  clumps  of  pittosporum  and  of 
jessamine,  with  two  or  three  straggling  fig-trees,  within 
the  inclosure  ;  a  billiard-room  and  salle-a-manger  in  the 
basement,  and  on  the  first  floor  a  salon,  opening  by  its 
long,  heavily  draped  windows,  upon  a  balcony  shielded 
with  striped  awning.  Here  on  many  an  evening,  when 
the  night-wind  comes  in  from  the  sea,  Maverick  lounges 
sipping  at  his  demi-tasse,  whiffing  at  a  fragrant  Havana, 
(imported  to  order,)  and  chatting  with  some  friend  he 
has  driven  out  from  the  stifling  streets  of  Marseilles 
about  the  business  chances  of  the  morrow.  A  tall,  agile 
Alsatian  woman,  with  a  gilt  crucifix  about  her  neck,  and 
a  great  deal  of  the  peasant  beauty  still  in  her  face,  glides 
into  the  salon  from  time  to  time,  acting  apparently  in 
the  capacity  of  mistress  of  the  establishment,  —  respect 
fully  courteous  to  Maverick  and  his  friend,  yet  showing 
something  more  than  the  usual  familiarity  of  a  depend 
ent  housekeeper. 

The   friend   who   sits  with   him  enjoying   the   night 


MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS.  187 

breeze  and  those  rare  Havanas  is  an  open-faced,  iniddle- 
aged  companion  of  the  city,  with  whom  Maverick  has 
sometimes  gone  to  a  bourgeois  home  near  to  Montauban, 
where  a  wrinkle-faced  old  Frenchman  in  velvet  skull 
cap  —  the  father  of  his  friend  —  has  received  him  with 
profound  obeisance,  brought  out  for  him  his  best  cru  of 
St.  Peray,  and  bored  him  with  long  stories  of  the  times 
of  1798,  in  which  he  was  a  participant.  Yet  the  home- 
scenes  there,  with  the  wrinkled  old  father  and  the 
stately  mamma  for  partners  at  whist  or  Boston,  have 
been  grateful  to  Maverick,  as  reminders  of  other  home- 
scenes  long  passed  out  of  reach  ;  and  he  has  opened  his 
heart  to  this  son  of  the  house. 

"Monsieur  Papiol,"  (it  is  the  Alsatian  woman  who  is 
addressing  the  friend  of  Maverick,)  "  ask,  then,  why  it 
is  Monsieur  Frank  is  going  to  America." 

"  Ah,  Lucille,  do  you  not  know,  then,  there  is  a  cer 
tain  Puritan  belle  he  goes  to  look  after  ?  " 

"  Pah ! "  says  the  Alsatian.  "  Monsieur  is  not  so 
young  !  " 

Maverick  puffs  at  his  cigar  thoughtfully,  —  a  thought- 
fulness  that  does  not  encourage  the  Alsatian  to  other 
speech,  —  and  in  a  moment  more  she  is  gone. 

"  Seriously,  Maverick,"  says  Papiol,  when  they  are 
alone  again,  "  what  will  you  do  with  this  Puritan 
daughter  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Keep  her  from  ways  of  wickedness,"  said  Maverick, 
without  losing  his  thoughtfulness. 

"Excellent!"  said  the  friend,  laughing;  "but  you 
will  hardly  bring  her  to  this  home  of  yours,  then  ?  " 


1 88  DOCTOR    JOHNS, 

"Hardly  to  this  country  of  yours,  Pierre." 

"Nonsense,  Maverick  !  You  will  be  too  proud  of  her, 
mon  ami.  I  'm  sure  of  that.  You  11  never  keep  her 
cribbed  yonder.  We  shall  see  you  escorting  her  some 
clay  up  and  down  the  Prado,  and  all  the  fine  young 
fellows  hereabout  paying  court  to  the  belle  Americaine. 
My  faith !  I  shall  be  wishing  myself  twenty  years 
younger ! " 

Maverick  is  still  very  thoughtful. 

"What  is  it,  my  good  fellow?  Is  it  —  that  the 
family  question  gives  annoyance  among  your  friends 
yonder  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,"  says  Maverick,  — and  reaching  a 
file  of  letters  in  his  cabinet,  he  lays  before  his  companion 
that  fragment  of  the  Doctor's  epistle  which  had  spoken 
of  the  rosary,  and  of  his  discovery  that  it  had  been  the 
gift  of  the  mother,  "  so  near,  and  he  trusted  dear  a  rela 
tive." 

"Mais,  comme  il  est  innocent,  your  good  old  friend 
there  ! " 

"I  wish  to  God,  Pierre,  I  were  as  innocent  as  he," 
said  Maverick,  and  tossed  his  cigar  over  the  edge  of  the 
balcony. 

Upon  his  arrival  at  New  York,  Maverick  did  not 
communicate  directly  with  the  Doctor,  enjoying  the 
thought,  very  likely,  of  surprising  his  old  friend  by  his 
visit,  very  much  as  he  had  surprised  him  many  years 
before.  He  takes  boat  to  a  convenient  point  upon  the 
shore  of  the  Sound,  and  thence  chooses  to  approach  the 


MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS.  189 

town  that  holds  what  is  most  dear  to  him  by  an  old, 
lumbering  stage-coach,  which  still  plies  across  the  hills, 
as  twenty  years  before,  through  the  parish  of  Ashfield. 
The  same  patches  of  tasseled  corn,  (it  is  August,)  the 
same  outlying  bushy  pastures,  the  same  reeling  walls 
of  mossy  cobble-stones  meet  his  eye  that  he  remem 
bered  on  his  previous  visit.  But  he  looks  upon  all 
wayside  views  carelessly, —  as  one  seeing,  and  yet  not  see 
ing  them. 

His  daughter  Adele,  she  who  parted  from  him  a  toy- 
child  eight  years  gone,  whom  a  new  ribbon  would 
amuse  hi  that  day,  must  have  changed.  That  she  has 
not  lost  her  love  of  him,  those  letters  have  told  ;  that 
she  has  not  lost  her  girlish  buoyancy,  he  knows.  She 
must  be  tall  now,  and  womanly  in  stature,  he  thinks. 
She  promised  to  be  graceful.  That  he  will  love  her,  he 
feels;  but  will  he  be  proud  of  her?  A  fine  figure,  a 
sweet,  womanly  voice,  an  arch  look,  a  winning  smile,  a 
pretty  coquetry  of  glance,  —  will  he  find  these  ?  Will 
she  be  clever  ?  Will  there  be  traces,  ripened  in  these 
last  years,  of  the  mother,  —  offensive  traces  possibly  ? 

But  Maverick  is  what  the  world  calls  a  philosopher  ; 
he  hums,  unconsciously,  a  snatch  of  a  French  song,  by 
which  he  rouses  the  attention  of  the  spectacled  old  lady, 
(the  only  other  occupant  of  the  coach,)  with  whom  he 
has  already  made  some  conversational  ventures,  and 
who  has  just  finished  a  lunch  which  she  has  drawn  from 
her  capacious  work-bag.  Reviving  now  under  the  in 
fluence  of  Maverick's  chance  fragment  of  song,  and 
dusting  the  crumbs  from  her  lap,  she  says,  — 


190  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"We  don't  have  very  good  singin'  no  win  the  Glosten- 
bury  meetin'." 

"Ah  !  "  says  Maverick. 

"  No  ;  Squire  Peter's  darters  have  been  gittin'  mar 
ried,  and  the  young  girls  ha'n't  come  on  yit." 

"  You  attend  the  Glostenbury  Church,  then,  madam  ?  " 
says  Maverick,  who  enjoys  the  provincialisms  of  her 
speech,  like  a  whiff  of  the  lilac  perfume  which  he  once 
loved. 

"In  gineral,  sir;  but  we  come  down  odd  spells  to 
hear  Dr.  Johns,  who  preaches  at  the  Ashfield  meetin '- 
house.  He  's  a  real  smart  man." 

"  Ah  !     And  this  Dr.  Johns  has  a  family,  I  think  ?  " 

1 '  Waal,  the  Doctor  lost  his  wife,  you  see,  quite  airly ; 
and  Miss  Johns  —  that  's  his  sister  —  has  bin  a-keepin' 
house  for  him  ever  sence.  I  'm  not  acquainted  with  her, 
but  I  've  heerd  she  's  a  very  smart  woman.  And  there  's 
a  French  girl  that  came  to  live  with  'em,  goin'  on  now 
seven  or  eight  year,  who  was  a  reglar  Koman  Catholic  ; 
but  I  kind  o'  guess  the  old  folks  has  tamed  her  down 
afore  now." 

"  Ah  !  I  should  think  that  a  Roman  Catholic  would 
have  but  a  poor  chance  in  a  New  England  village." 

"Not  much  of  a  chance  anywhere,  I  guess,"  said  the 
old  lady,  wiping  her  spectacles,  "  if  folks  only  preached 
the  Gospil." 

Even  now  the  coach  is  creaking  along  through  tho 
outskirts  of  Ashfield  ;  and  presently  the  driver's  horn 
wakes  the  echoes  of  the  hills,  while  the  horses  plunge 
forward  at  a  doubled  pace.  The  eyes  of  Maverick  are 


MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS.  191 

intent  upon  every  house,  every  open  window,  every 
moving  figure. 

"It  's  a  most  a  beautiful  town,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  Charming,  charming,  madam  !  "  —  and  even  as  he 
spoke,  Maverick's  eye  fastens  upon  two  figures  before 
them  with  a  strange  yearning  in  his  gaze,  —  two  figures 
of  almost  equal  height  ;  a  little,  coquetish  play  of  rib 
bons  about  the  head  of  one,  which  on  the  other  are 
absent ;  a  girlish,  elastic  step  to  one,  that  does  not 
belong  to  the  other. 

Is  there  something  in  the  gait,  something  in  the  poise 
of  the  head,  to  which  the  memory  of  Maverick  so 
cleaves?  It  is,  indeed,  Adele,  taking  her  noon-day 
walk  with  Madame  Aries  ;  a  lithe  figure  and  a  buoyant 
step,  holding  themselves  tenderly  in  check  for  the  slower 
pace  of  the  companion.  Maverick's  gaze  keeps  fast 
upon  them,  —  fast  upon  them,  until  the  old  coach  is 
fairly  abreast,  —  fast  upon  them  ;  until  by  a  glance  back 
he  has  caught  full  sight  of  the  faces. 

"  Man  Dieu  I  "  he  exclaims,  and  throws  himself  back 
in  the  coach. 

"  Haow  ?  "  says  the  old  lady. 

" Mon  Dieu,  it  is  she!  "  continues  Maverick,  speaking 
under  intense  excitement  to  himself,  as  if  unconscious 
of  any  other  presence. 

"Haow,"  urged  the  old  lady,  more  persistently. 

"  Damn  it,  nothing,  madam  !  " 

And  the  old  lady  drew  the  strings  of  her  bag  closely, 
and  looked  full  out  of  the  opposite  window. 

Within   a   half-hour   the  stage-coach   arrived  at   the 


192  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Eagle  Tavern.  Maverick  demanded  a  chamber,  and 
asked  to  see  the  landlord.  The  stout,  blear-eyed  Boody 
presently  made  his  appearance. 

"  How  can  I  reach  New  York  soonest,  my  friend  ?  " 

Mr.  Boody  consulted  his  watch. 

"  Well,  by  fast  driving  you  might  catch  the  night-boat 
on  the  river." 

"  Can  you  get  me  there  in  time  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  reflecting  a  moment,  "I  guess  I  can." 

"  Very  good.  Have  your  carriage  ready  as  soon  as 
possible." 

And  within  an  hour,  Maverick,  dejected,  and  with  an 
anxious  air,  was  on  his  return  to  the  city. 

Three  days  after,  the  Doctor  summons  Adele  into  his 
study. 

"Adaly,  here  is  a  letter  from  your  father,  which  I 
wish  you  to  read." 

The  girl  takes  it  eagerly,  and  at  the  first  line  ex 
claims,  — 

"He  is  in  New  York  !     Why  does  n't  he  come  here  ?  " 

"MY  DEAR  JOHNS,"  (so  his  letter  runs,)  "I  had  counted 
on  surprising  you  completely  by  dropping  in  upon  you 
at  your  parsonage,  in  Ashfield  ;  but  circumstances  have 
prevented.  Can  I  ask  so  large  a  favor  of  you  as  to 
bring  my  dear  Adele  to  meet  me  here  ?  I  fancy  her 
now  so  accomplished  a  young  lady,  that  there  will  be 
needed  some  ceremony  of  presentation  at  your  hands ; 
besides  which,  I  want  a  long  talk  with  you.  We  are 
both  many  years  older  since  we  have  met ;  you  have  had 


MAVERICK  RE-APPEARS.  193 

your  trials,  and  I  have  escaped  with  only  a  few  rubs. 
Let  us  talk  them  over.  Slip  away  quietly,  if  you  can  ; 
beyond  Adele  and  your  good  sister,  can't  you  conceal 
your  errand  to  the  city  ?  Your  country  villagers  are  so 
prone  to  gossip,  that  I  would  wish  to  clasp  my  little 
Adele  before  your  towns-folk  shall  have  talked  the 
matter  over.  Pray  ask  your  good  sister  to  prepare 
the ,  wardrobe  of  Adele  for  a  month  or  two  of  absence, 
since  I  mean  she  shall  be  my  attendant  on  a  little 
jaunt  through  the  country.  I  long  to  greet  her  ;  and 
your  grave  face,  my  dear  Johns,  is  always  a  welcome 
sight." 

Adele  is  in  a  fever  of  excitement.  In  her  happy  glee 
she  would  have  gone  out  to  tell  all  the  village  what 
pleasure  was  before  her.  Even  the  caution  she  receives 
from  the  Doctor  cannot  control  her  spirits  absolutely. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  see  Reuben  in  the  city,"  Rose 
had  said,  in  a  chance  way. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so  !  "  said  Adele. 

And  of  Reuben  neither  of  them  said  any  thing  more. 

Then  with  what  a  great  storm  of  embraces  Adele 
parted  from  Rose  !  A  parting  only  for  a  month,  per 
haps  ;  both  knew  that.  But  the  friendship  of  young- 
girls  can  build  a  week  into  a  monstrous  void. 

Phil,  who  is  a  sturdy  and  somewhat  timid  lover, 
without  knowing  it,  affects  an  air  of  composure,  and 
says,  — 

"  I  hope  you  11  have  a  good  time,  Adele  ;  and  I  sup 
pose  you  '11  forget  us  all  here  in  Ashfield/' 
13 


194  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"No,  you  don't  suppose  any  such  thing,  Mister 
Philip,"  says  Adele,  roundly,  and  with  a  frank,  full  look 
at  him  that  makes  the  color  come  to  his  face  ;  and  he 
laughs,  but  not  easily. 

"  Well,  good-by,  Adele." 

She  takes  his  hand,  eagerly. 

"  Good-by,  Phil ;  you  're  a  dear,  good  fellow  ;  and 
you  've  been  very  kind  to  me." 


xxxm. 

In  ike  City. 

IT  is  at  Jennings's  old  City  Hotel,  far  down  Broadway, 
that  Maverick  has  taken  rooms  and  awaits  the  arri 
val  of  Adele.  That  glimpse  of  her  upon  the  street  of 
Ashfield  (ay,  he  knew  it  must  be  she  !)  has  added  pride 
to  the  instinctive  love  of  the  parent.  The  elastic  step, 
the  graceful  figure,  the  beaming,  sunny  face,  —  they  all 
haunt  him  ;  they  put  him  in  a  fever  of  expectation.  He 
reads  over  again  the  few  last  letters  of  hers  under  a  new 
light ;  up  and  down  along  the  page,  that  lithe,  tall  fig 
ure  is  always  coming  forward,  and  the  words  of  endear 
ment  are  coupled  with  that  sunny  face. 

He  even  prepares  his  toilet  to  meet  her,  as  a  lover 
might  do  to  meet  his  affianced.  And  the  meeting,  when 
it  comes,  only  deepens  the  pride.  Graceful  ?  Yes ! 
That  bound  toward  him,  —  can  any  thing  be  fuller  of 
grace  ?  Natural  ?  The  look  and  the  speech  of  Adele 


IN   THE   CITY.  195 

are  to  Maverick  a  new  revelation  of  Nature.  Loving  ? 
That  clinging  kiss  of  hers  was  worth  his  voyage  over  the 
sea. 

And  she,  too,  is  so  beautifully  proud  of  her  father ! 
She  has  loved  the  Doctor  for  his  serenity,  his  large  jus 
tice,  notwithstanding  his  stiffness  and  his  awkward 
gravity ;  but  she  regards  with  new  eyes  the  manly 
grace  of  her  father,  his  easy  self-possession,  his  pliabil 
ity  of  talk,  his  tender  attention  to  her  comfort,  his  wist 
ful  gaze  at  her,  so  full  of  a  yearning  affection,  which,  if 
the  Doctor  had  ever  felt,  he  had  counted  it  a  duty  to 
conceal  Nay,  the  daughter,  with  a  womanly  eye,  took 
pride  in  the  aptitude  and  becomingness  of  his  dress,  — 
so  different  from  what  she  had  been  used  to  see  in  the 
clumsy  toilet  of  the  Doctor,  or  of  the  good-natured 
Squire  Elderkin.  Henceforth  she  will  have  a  new 
standard  of  comparison,  to  which  her  lovers,  if  they 
ever  declare  themselves,  must  submit. 

"And  so  you  have  stolen  a  march  upon  them  all, 
Adele  ?  I  suppose  they  have  n't  a  hint  of  the  person 
you  were  to  meet  ?  " 

"  All,  —  at  least  nearly  all,  dear  papa  ;  there  was  only 
good  Madame  Aries,  to  whom  I  could  not  help  saying 
that  I  was  coming  to  see  you." 

A  shade  passed  over  the  face  of  Maverick,  which  it 
required  all  his  self-possession  to  conceal  from  the  quick 
eye  of  his  daughter. 

"And  who,  pray,  is  this  Madame  Aries,  Adele?  " 

"  Oh,  a  good  creature  !  She  has  taught  me  French  ; 
no  proper  teaching,  to  be  sure  ;  but  in  my  talk  with 


196  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

her,  all  the  old  idioms  have  come  back  to  me  ;  at  least, 
I  hope  so." 

And  she  rattles  on  in  French  speech,  explaining  how 
it  was,  —  how  they  walked  together  in  those  sunny 
noontides  at  Ashfield  ;  and  taking  a  girlish  pride  in  the 
easy  adaptation  of  her  language  to  forms  which  her 
father  must  know  so  well,  she  rounds  off  a  little  torrent  of 
swift  narrative  with  a  piquant,  coquettish  look,  and  says, — 

"  N'est  ce  pas,  quefy  suis,  mon  ptre  ?" 

"  Parfaitement,  ma  ch£re,"  says  the  father,  and  drops 
an  admiring  kiss  upon  the  glowing  cheeks  of  Adele. 

But  the  shade  of  anxiety  has  not  passed  from  the  face 
of  Maverick. 

"  This  Madame  Aries,  Adele,  —  has  she  been  long  in 
the  country  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  papa  ;  yet  it  must  be  some  time  ;  she 
speaks  English  passably  well. " 

"And  she  has  told  you,  I  suppose,  very  much  about 
the  people  among  whom  you  were  born,  Adele  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  papa,  —  and  never  any  thing  about  her 
self  or  her  history  ;  yet  I  have  been  so  curious  !  " 

"Don't  be  too  curious,  petite ;  you  might  learn  only 
of  badness." 

"  Not  badness,  I  am  very,  very  sure,  papa  !  " 

Adele  is  sitting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  fondling 
those  sparse  locks  of  his,  sprinkled  with  gray.  It  is  a 
wholly  new  sensation  for  him  ;  charming,  doubtless ;  but 
even  under  the  caresses  of  this  daughter,  of  whom  he  has 
reason  to  be  proud,  anxious  thoughts  crowd  upon  him. 

The  Doctor  is  met  very  warmly  by  Maverick,  and 


IN   THE    CITY.  197 

feels  something  like  a  revival  of  the  glow  of  his  youth- 
fiil  days  as  he  takes  his  hand  ;  and  yet  they  are  wider 
apart  by  far  than  when  they  met  in  the  lifetime  of 
Rachel.  Both  feel  it  ;  they  have  traveled  divergent 
roads,  these  last  twenty  years.  The  Doctor  is  satisfied 
by  the  bearing  and  talk  of  Maverick  (whatever  kindness 
may  he  in  it)  that  his  worldliness  is  more  engrossing 
and  decided  than  ever.  And  Maverick,  on  his  part, 
scrutinizing  carelessly,  but  unerringly,  that  embarrassed 
country  manner  of  the  parson's,  that  stark  linen  in 
which  he  is  arrayed  by  the  foresight  of  the  spinster 
sister,  and  the  constraint  of  his  speech,  is  sure  that  his 
old  friend  more  than  ever  bounds  his  thought  by  the 
duties  of  his  sacred  office. 

The  Doctor  is,  moreover,  sadly  out  of  place  in  that 
little  parlor  of  the  hotel,  looking  out  upon  Broadway ; 
there  is  no  adaptiveuess  in  his  nature  :  he  comes  out 
from  the  little  world  of  his  study,  where  Tillotson  and 
Poole  and  Newton  have  been  his  companions,  athwart 
the  roar  of  the  city  street,  and  it  sounds  in  his  ear  like 
an  echo  of  the  murmurs  of  Pandemonium.  Under 
these  circumstances  he  scarce  dares  to  expostulate  so 
boldly  as  he  would  wish  with  Maverick  upon  the  world 
liness  of  his  career  ;  it  would  seem  like  bearding  the 
lion  in  his  own  den.  Nor,  indeed,  does  Maverick  pro 
voke  such  expostulation  ;  he  is  so  considerate  of  the 
Doctor's  feelings,  so  grateful  for  his  attentions  to  Adele, 
so  religiously  disposed  (it  must  be  said)  in  ah1  that  con 
cerns  the  daughter's  education  and  future,  and  waives 
the  Doctor's  personal  advices  with  so  kind  and  easy  a 


198  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

grace,  that  the  poor  parson  despairs  of  reaching  him 
with  the  point  of  the  sword  of  Divine  truth. 

"My  good  friend,"  says  Maverick,  "you  have  been  a 
father  to  my  child,  —  a  better  one  than  I  have  made, 
—  I  wish  I  could  repay  you." 

The  Doctor  bows  stiffly  ;  he  has  lost  the  familiarity 
which  at  their  last  interview  had  lingered  from  their 
boyish  days  at  coUege. 

"  I  suppose  that  under  your  teaching,"  continues 
Maverick,  "  she  is  so  fixed  in  the  New  England  faith  of 
our  fathers,  that  she  might  be  trusted  now  even  to  my 
bad  guidance." 

"I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  Maverick.  I  could 
have  wished  to  see  more  of  ^self-abasement  in  her,  and 
a  clearer  acceptance  of  the  doctrine  we  are  called  upon 
to  teach." 

"  But  she  has  been  constant  to  the  duties  you  have 
enjoined,  has  n't  she,  Doctor?" 

"  Entirely  so,  —  entirely  ;  but,  my  friend,  our  poor 
worldly  efforts  at  duty  do  not  always  call  down  the  gift 
of  Grace." 

"By  Jove,  Doctor,  but  that  seems  hard  doctrine." 

"  Hard  to  carnal  minds,  Maverick ;  but  the  evi 
dences  " — 

"Nay,  na^,"  said  Maverick,  interrupting  him;  "you 
know  I  'm  not  strong  in  theology  ;  I  don't  want  to  be 
put  hors  du  combat  by  you.  But  about  that  little  affair 
of  the  rosary,  —  no  harm  came  of  it,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  None,  I  believe,"  said  the  Doctor  ;  "  but  I  must  not 
conceal  from  you,  Maverick,  that  a  late  teacher  of  hers, 


IN   THE    CITY.  199 

to  whom,  unfortunately,  she  seems  very  much  attached, 
is  strongly  wedded  to  the  Komish  Church." 

"That  would  seem  a  very  awkward  risk  to  take,  Doc 
tor,"  said  Maverick,  with  more  of  seriousness  than  he 
had  yet  shown. 

"  A  risk,  certainly ;  but  I  took  the  precaution  of 
warning  Madame  Aries,  who  is  the  party  in  question, 
against  any  conversation  with  Adaly  upon  religious 
subjects." 

"And  you  ventured  to  trust  her?  Upon  my  word, 
Johns,  you  give  me  a  lesson  in  faith.  I  should  have 
been  more  severe  than  you.  I  would  n't  have  admitted 
such  intercourse  ;  and,  my  good  friend,  if  I  should  ask 
permission  to  reinstate  Adele  in  your  household  for  a 
time,  promise  me  please  that  all  intercourse  with  Ma 
dame  Aries  shall  be  cut  off.  I  know  Frenchwomen  better 
than  you,  my  friend." 

"  No  doubt  —  no  doubt !  " 

And  the  Doctor  assured  him  that  he  would  do  as  he 
desired,  and  would  be  glad  to  have  the  father's  authority 
for  the  interruption  of  an  intercourse  which  had  almost 
the  proportions  of  a  tender  friendship. 

Maverick  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment 

"  Well,  yes,  Doctor,  be  gentle  —  I  know  you  are  always 
—  with  the  dear  girl ;  but  if  there  be  any  demur  on  her 
part,  pray  give  her  to  understand  that  what  you  will  ask 
in  this  respect  lias  my  express  sanction.  If  I  know  my 
self,  Johns,  there  is  no  object  I  have  so  near  at  heart  a3 
the  happiness  of  my  child  ;  not  alone  now  ;  but  in  her 
future,  I  hope  to  God  (I  speak  reverently,  Doctor)  that 


200  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

she  may  have  immunity  from  suffering  of  whatever  kind. 
I  wish  wealth  could  buy  it ;  but  it  can't.  Mind  the 
promise,  Johns ;  keep  her  away  from  this  French 
woman." 

The  Brindlocks,  of  course,  with  whom  the  Doctor  was 
quartered  during  his  stay,  took  an  early  occasion  to 
show  civilities  to  Mr.  Maverick  and  his  daughter  ;  and 
Mrs.  Brindlock  kindly  offered  her  services  to  Adele  in 
negotiating  such  additions  to  her  wardrobe  as  the  proud 
father  insisted  upon  her  making  ;  and  in  the  necessary 
excursions  up  and  down  the  city,  Reuben,  by  the  pleas 
ant  devices  of  Mrs.  Brindlock,  was  an  almost  constant 
out-of-door  attendant. 

He  was  no  longer  the  shy  boy  Adele  had  at  first  en 
countered.  Nay,  grown  bold  by  his  city  experiences, 
he  was  disposed  to  assume  a  somewhat  patronizing  air 
toward  the  bright-eyed  country-girl  who  was  just  now 
equipping  herself  for  somewhat  larger  contact  with  the 
world.  Adele  did  not  openly  resent  the  proffered  patron 
age,  but,  on  the  contrary,  accepted  it  with  an  excess  of 
grateful  expressions,  whose  piquant  irony,  for  two  whole 
days,  Reuben,  with  his  blunter  perceptions,  never  sus 
pected.  What  boy  of  eighteen  is  a  match  for  a  girl  of 
sixteen?  Patronize,  indeed !  But  suspicion  came  at 
last,  and  full  knowledge  broke  upon  him  under  a  musical 
little  laugh  of  Adele's,  (half  smothered  in  her  kerchief,) 
when  the  gallant  young  man  had  blundered  into  some 
idle  compliment. 

But  if  the  laugh  of  Adele  cured  Reuben  of  his  patron 
age,  it  did  not  cure  him  of  thought  about  her.  It  kindled 


THE  NEW  REUBEN.  201 

a  new  train,  indeed,  of  whose  drift  he  was  himself  un 
conscious. 

Hs  is  not  altogether  the  same  lad  we  saw  upon  the 
deck  of  the  Princess,  under  Captain  Saul.  He  would 
hardly  sail  for  China  now  in  a  tasseled  cap.  He  never 
will,  —  this  much  we  can  say,  at  least,  without  anticipa 
ting  the  burden  of  our  story. 


XXXIV. 

The   New   Reiiben. 

REUBEN  has  in  many  respects  vastly  improved  under 
his  city  education.  It  would  be  wrong  to  say 
that  the  good  Doctor  did  not  take  a  very  human  pride 
in  his  increased  alertness  of  mind,  in  his  vivacity,  in  his 
self-possession,  —  nay,  even  in  that  very  air  of  world- 
acquaintance  which  now  covered  entirely  the  old  homely 
manner  of  the  country  lad.  He  thought  within  himself, 
what  a  glad  smile  of  triumph  would  have  been  kindled 
upon  the  face  of  the  lost  Rachel,  could  she  but  have  seen 
this  tall  youth  with  his  kindly  attentions  and  his  grace 
ful  speech.  May  be  she  did  see  it  all. 

But  the  Doctor  underneath  all  his  pride  carried  a 
great  deal  of  anxious  doubt ;  and  as  he  walked  beside 
his  boy  upon  the  thronged  street,  elated  in  some  strange 
way  by  the  touch  of  that  strong  arm  of  the  youth,  whose 
blood  was  his  own,  —  so  dearly  his  own,  —  he  pondered 
gravely  with  himself,  if  the  mocking  delusions  of  the 


202  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Evil  One  were  not  the  occasion  of  his  pride?  Was 
not  Satan  setting  himself  artfully  to  the  work  of  quiet 
ing  all  sense  of  responsibility  in  regard  to  the  lad's 
future,  by  thus  kindling  in  his  old  heart  anew  the  van 
ities  of  the  flesh  and  the  pride  of  life  ? 

"I  say,  father,  I  want  to  put  you  through  now.  It  '11 
do  you  a  great  deal  of  good  to  see  some  of  the  wonders 
here  in  the  city." 

"The  very  voice, — the  very  voice  of  Rachel!"  says 
the  Doctor  to  himself,  quickening  his  laggard  step  to 
keep  pace  with  Reuben. 

"  There  are  such  lots  of  things  to  show  you,  father ! 
Look  in  this  store,  now.  You  can  step  in,  if  you  like. 
It 's  the  largest  carpet-store  in  the  "United  States,  — 
three  stories  packed  full.  There  's  the  head  man  of  the 
firm,  —  the  stout  man  in  a  white  choker  ;  with  half  a 
million,  they  say  :  he  's  a  deacon  in  Mo  wry 's  Church." 

"I  hope,  Reuben,  that  he  makes  a  worthy  use  of  his 
wealth." 

'•'  Oh,  he  gives  thunderingly  to  the  missionary  socie 
ties,"  said  Reuben,  with  a  glibness  that  grated  on  the 
father's  ear. 

"You  see  that  building  yonder?  That's  Gothic. 
They  've  got  the  finest  bowling-alleys  in  the  world 
there." 

"I  hope,  my  son,  you  never  go  to  such  places  ?  " 

"  Bowl  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  bowl  sometimes  :  the  physicians 
recommend  it ;  good  exercise  for  the  chest.  Besides, 
it 's  kept  by  a  fine  man,  and  he  's  got  one  of  the  pretti 
est  little  trotting  horses  you  ever  saw  in  your  life." 


THE  NEW  REUBEN.  203 

"  Why,  my  son,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  nie  that  you 
have  acquaintance  with  the  keeper  of  this  bowling- 
alley?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  father,  —  we  fellows  all  know  him  ;  and 
his  cigars  are  tip-top." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  smoke,  Reuben?" 
said  the  old  gentleman,  gravely. 

"  Not  much,  father  :  but  then,  everybody  smokes  now 
and  then.  Mo  wry  —  Dr.  Mo  wry  smokes,  you  know." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     Well,  well !  " 

"  You  see  that  fine  building  over  there  ? "  said  Reu 
ben,  as  they  passed  on. 

"  Yes,  my  son." 

"  That 's  the  theater,  —  the  Old  Park." 

The  Doctor  ran  his  eye  over  it,  and  its  effigy  of  Shaks- 
peare  upon  the  niche  in  the  wall,  as  Gabriel  might  have 
looked  upon  the  armor  of  Beelzebub. 

"  I  hope,  Reuben,  you  never  enter  those  doors?  " 

"  Well,  father,  since  Kean  and  Mathews  are  gone, 
there  's  really  nothing  worth  the  seeing." 

"  Kean  !  Mathews  ! "  said  the  Doctor,  stopping  in  his 
walk  and  confronting  Reuben  with  a  stern  brow,  —  "  is 
it  possible,  my  son,  that  I  hear  you  talking  in  this  famil 
iar  way  of  play-actors  ?  You  don't  tell  me  that  you 
have  been  a  participant  in  such  orgies  of  Satan  ?  " 

"Why,  father!"  said  Reuben,  a  little  startled  by  the 
Doctor's  earnestness,  "  the  truth  is,  Aunt  Mabel  goes  oc 
casionally,  like  'most  all  the  ladies  ;  but  we  go,  you 
know,  to  see  the  moral  pieces,  generally." 

"Moral  pieces!"  said  the  Doctor  with  a  withering 


204  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

scowl.  "  Reuben !  those  who  go  thither  take  hold  on 
the  door-posts  of  hell !  " 

"  That 's  the  Tract  Society  building  yonder,"  said 
Reuben,  wishing  to  divert  the  Doctor,  if  possible,  from 
the  special  objects  of  his  reflections. 

"  Rachel's  voice  !  —  always  Rachel's  voice  !  "  —  said 
the  Doctor  to  himself. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  in,  father?" 

"No,  my  son,  we  have  no  time  ;  arid  yet" — meditat 
ing,  and  thrusting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  —  "  there  is  a 
tract  or  two  I  would  like  to  buy  for  you,  Reuben." 

"Go  in,  then,"  says  Reuben.  "  Let  me  tell  them  who 
you  are,  father,  and  you  can  get  them  at  wholesale 
prices.  It 's  the  merest  song." 

"No,  my  son,  no,"  said  the  Doctor,  disheartened  by 
the  blithe  air  of  Reuben.  "  I  fear  it  would  be  wasted 
effort.  Yet  I  trust  that  you  do  not  wholly  neglect  the 
opportunities  for  religious  instruction  on  the  Sab 
bath?" 

"Oh,  no,"  says  Reuben,  gayly.  "I  see  Dr.  Mowry 
off  and  on,  pretty  often.  He  's  a  clever  old  gentleman, 
—  Dr.  Mowry." 

Clever  old  gentleman  ! 

The  Doctor  walked  on,  oppressed  with  grief,  —  silent, 
but  with  lips  moving  in  prayer,  —  beseeching  God  to 
take  away  the  stony  heart  from  this  poor  child  of  his, 
and  to  give  him  a  heart  of  flesh. 

The  city  Doctor  was  a  ponderously  good  man,  preach 
ing  for  the  most  part  ponderous  sermons,  and  possessed 
of  a  most  imposing  friendliness  of  manner.  When  Reu- 


THE  NEW  REUBEN.  205 

ben  had  presented  to  him  the  credentials  from  his  fa 
ther,  (which  he  could  hardly  have  done,  save  for  the  ur 
gency  of  the  Brindlocks,)  the  ponderous  Doctor  had 
patted  him  upon  the  shoulder,  and  said,  — 

'•  My  young  friend,  your  father  is  a  most  worthy  man, 
—  most  worthy.  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  you  fol 
lowing  in  his  steps.  I  shall  be  most  glad  to  be  of  ser 
vice  to  you.  Our  meetings  for  Bible  instruction  are  on 
Wednesdays,  at  seven  :  the  young  men  upon  the  left, 
the  young  ladies  on  the  right." 

The  memory  of  old  teachings  did,  for  a  year  or  more, 
make  any  divergence  from  the  severe  path  of  boyhood 
seem  to  Reuben  a  sin. 

The  first  visit  to  the  theater  was  like  a  bold  push  into 
the  very  domain  of  Satan.  Even  the  ticket-seller  at  the 
door  seemed  to  him  on  that  eventful  night  an  under 
strapper  of  Beelzebub,  who  looked  out  at  him  with  the 
goggle  eyes  of  a  demon.  That  such  a  man  could  have  a 
family,  or  family  affections,  or  friendships,  or  any  sense 
of  duty  or  honor,  was  to  him  a  thing  incomprehensible  ; 
and  when  he  passed  the  wicket  for  the  first  time  into 
the  vestibule  of  the  old  Park  Theater,  the  very  usher 
in  the  corridor  had  to  his  eye  a  look  like  the  Giant  Da- 
gon,  and  he  conceived  of  him  as  mumbling,  in  his  leisure 
moments,  the  flesh  from  human  bones.  And  when  at 
last  the  curtain  rose,  and  the  damp  air  came  out  upon 
him  from  behind  the  scenes  as  he  sat  in  the  pit,  and  the 
play  began  with  some  wonderful  creature  in  tight  bod 
ice  and  painted  cheeks,  sailing  across  the  stage,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  flames  of  Divine  wrath  might  presently 


206  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

be  bursting  out  over  the  house,  or  a  great  judgment  of 
God  break  down  the  roof  and  destroy  them  all. 

But  it  did  not ;  and  he  took  courage.  If  in  his  mo 
ments  of  reflection  —  these  being  not  yet  wholly  crowded 
out  from  his  life  —  there  came  a  shadowy  hope  of  better 
things,  of  some  moral  poise  that  should  be  in  keeping 
with  the  tenderer  recollections  of  his  boyhood,  —  all  this 
can  never  be,  (he  bethinks  himself,  in  view  of  his  old 
teaching, )  except  on  the  heel  of  some  terrible  conviction 
of  sin  ;  and  the  conviction  will  hardly  come  without  some 
deeper  and  more  damning  weight  of  it  than  he  feels  as 
yet. 

The  minister's  son  had  no  love  for  gross  vices  ;  there 
were  human  instincts  in  him  (if  it  may  be  said)  that  re 
belled  against  his  more  deliberate  sinnings.  But  the 
father,  as  we  have  seen,  could  not  reach  down  to  any 
religious  convictions  of  the  son  ;  and  Reuben  keeps  him 
at  bay  with  a  banter,  and  an  exaggerated  attention  to 
the  personal  comforts  of  the  old  gentleman,  that  utterly 
baffle  him. 

So  it  was  with  a  profound  sigh  that  the  father  bade 
his  son  adieu  after  this  city  visit. 

"Good-by,  father  !     Love  to  them  all  in  Ashfield." 

So  like  Eachel's  voice  !  So  like  Eachel's !  And  the 
heart  of  the  old  man  yearned  toward  him  and  ached 
bitterly  for  him.  "  0  my  son  Absalom  !  my  son  !  " 


TRA  VEL.  207 

XXXV. 

Travel. 

MAVERICK  hurried  his  departure  from  the  city; 
and  Adele,  writing  to  Rose  to  announce  the  pro 
gramme  of  her  journey,  says  only  this  much  of  Reu 
ben  :  —  "We  have  of  course  seen  R ,  who  was  very 

attentive  and  kind.  He  has  grown  tall,  —  taller,  I 
should  think,  than  Phil ;  and  he  is  quite  well-looking, 
and  gentlemanly.  I  think  he  has  a  very  good  opinion 
of  himself." 

The  summer's  travel  offered  a  season  of  rare  enjoy 
ment  to  Adele.  The  lively  sentiment  of  girlhood  was 
not  yet  wholly  gone,  and  the  thoughtfulness  of  woman 
hood  was  just  beginning  to  tone,  without  controlling, 
her  sensibilities.  The  delicate  attentions  of  Maverick 
were  more  like  those  of  a  lover  than  of  a  father. 
Through  his  ever-watchful  eyes,  Adele  looked  upon  the 
beauties  of  Nature  with  a  new  halo  on  them.  How  the 
water  sparkled  to  her  vision  !  How  the  days  came  and 
went  like  golden  dreams  ! 

Ah,  happy  youth-time  !  The  Hudson,  Lake  George, 
Saratoga,  the  Mountains,  the  Beach,  —  to  us  old  stagers, 
who  have  breasted  the  tide  of  so  many  years,  and  flung 
off  long  ago  all  the  iridescent  sparkles  of  our  sentiment, 
these  are  only  names  of  summer  thronging-places. 
Upon  the  river  we  watch  the  growth  of  the  crops,  or 


208  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ask  our  neighbors  about  the  cost  of  our  friend  Faro's 
new  country-seat ;  we  lounge  upon  the  piazzas  of  the 
hotels,  reading  price-lists,  or  (if  not  too  old)  an  edi 
torial  ;  we  complain  of  the  windy  currents  upon  the 
lake,  and  find  our  chiefest  pleasure  in  a  trout  boiled 
plain,  with  a  dressing  of  champagne  sauce  ;  we  linger 
at  Fabian's  on  a  sunny  porch,  talking  politics  with  a 
rheumatic  old  gentleman  in  his  overcoat,  while  the 
youngest  go  ambling  through  the  fir  wroods  and  up  the 
mountains  with  shouts  and  laughter.  Yet  it  was  not 
always  thus.  There  were  times  in  the  lives  of  us  old 
travelers  —  let  us  say  from  sixteen  to  twenty  —  when 
the  great  river  was  a  glorious  legend  trailing  its  storied 
length  through  the  Highlands  ;  when  in  every  open 
ing  valley  there  lay  purple  shadows  whereon  we  paint 
ed  castles  :  when  the  corridors  and  shaded  walks  of 
the  "  United  States  "  were  like  a  fairy  land,  with  flit 
ting  skirts  and  waving  plumes,  and  some  delicately 
gloved  hand  beating  its  reveille  upon  the  heart ;  and 
when  every  floating  film  of  the  mist  along  the  sea, 
whether  at  Newrport  or  Nahant,  tenderly  entreated  the 
fancy. 

But  we  forget  ourselves,  and  we  forget  Adele.  In 
her  wild  exuberance  of  joy  Maverick  shares  with  a 
spirit  that  he  had  believed  to  be  dead  in  him  utterly. 
And  if  he  finds  it  necessary  to  check  from  time  to  time 
the  noisy  effervescence  of  her  pleasure,  as  he  certainly 
does  at  the  first,  he  does  it  in  the  most  tender  and  con 
siderate  way ;  and  Adele  learns,  what  many  of  her 
warm-hearted  sisters  never  do  learn,  that  a  well-bred 


TRAVEL.  209 

control  over  our  enthusiasms  in  no  way  diminishes  the 
exquisiteness  of  their  savor. 

Maverick  should  be  something  over  fifty  now,  and  his 
keenness  of  observation  in  respect  to  feminine  charms 
is  not  perhaps  so  great  as  it  once  was  ;  but  even  he  can 
not  fail  to  see.  with  a  pride  that  he  makes  no  great  ef 
fort  to  conceal,  the  admiring  looks  that  follow  the  lithe, 
graceful  figure  of  Adele,  wherever  their  journey  may 
lead  them.  Nor,  indeed,  were  there  any  more  comely 
toilets  for  a  young  girl  to  be  met  with  anywhere  than 
those  which  had  been  provided  for  the  young  traveler 
under  the  advices  of  Mrs.  Brindlock. 

It  may  be  true  —  what  his  friend  Papiol  had  pre 
dicted  —  that  Maverick  will  be  too  proud  of  his  child  to 
keep  her  in  a  secluded  corner  of  New  England. 

Yet  weeks  had  run  by,  and  Maverick  had  never  once 
broached  the  question  of  a  return.  The  truth  was,  that 
the  new  experience  was  so  charming  and  so  engrossing 
for  him,  the  sweet,  intelligent  face  ever  at  his  side  was 
so  full  of  eager  wonder,  and  he  so  delightfully  intent 
upon  providing  new  sources  of  pleasure,  and  calling  out 
again  and  again  the  gushes  of  her  girlish  enthusiasm, 
that  he  shrunk  instinctively  from  a  decision  in  which 
must  be  involved  so  largely  her  future  happiness. 

At  last  it  was  Adele  herself  who  suggested  the  in 
quiry,  — 

"  Is  it  true,  dear  papa,  what  the  Doctor  tells  me,  that 
you  may  possibly  take  me  back  to  France  with  you  ?  " 

"  What  say  you,  Adele  ?     Would  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

"  Dearly  !  " 
14 


210  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  But,"  said  Maverick,  "  your  friends  here,  —  can  you 
so  easily  cast  them  away  ?  " 

"No,  no,  no!  "  said  Adele,  —  "not  cast  them  away ! 
Could  n't  I  come  again  some  day  ?  Besides,  there  is 
your  home,  papa  ;  I  should  love  any  home  of  yours,  and 
love  your  friends." 

"  For  instance,  Adele,  there  is  my  book-keeper,  a  lean 
Savoyard,  who  wears  a  red  wig  and  spectacles,  —  and 
Lucille,  a  great,  gaunt  woman,  with  a  golden  crucifix 
about  her  neck,  who  keeps  my  little  parlor  in  order,  — 
and  Papiol,  a  fat  Frenchman,  with  a  bristly  mustache 
and  iron-gray  hair,  who,  I  dare  say,  would  want  to  kiss 
the  pet  of  his  dear  friend,  —  and  Jeannette,  who  washes 
the  dishes  for  us,  and  wears  great  wooden  sabots  " 

"  Nonsense,  papa  !  I  am  sure  you  have  other  friends  ; 
and  then  there  's  the  good  Godmother." 

"Ah,  yes, — she  indeed,"  said  Maverick;  "what  a 
precious  hug  she  would  give  you,  Adele  ! " 

"And  then  —  and  then  —  should  I  see  mamma ?  " 

The  pleasant  humor  died  out  of  the  face  of  Maverick 
on  the  instant ;  and  then,  in  a  slow,  measured  tone,  — 

"  Impossible,  Adele,  —  impossible  !  Come  here,  dar 
ling  ! "  and  as  he  fondled  her  in  a  wild,  passionate  way, 
"  I  will  love  you  for  both,  Adele  ;  she  was  not  worthy  of 
you,  child." 

Adele,  too,  is  overcome  with  a  sudden  seriousness. 

"  Is  she  living,  papa  ?  "  And  she  gives  him  an  ap 
pealing  look  that  must  be  answered. 

And  Maverick  seems  somehow  appalled  by  that  inno- 
confiding  expression  of  hers. 


TRAVEL.  211 

"May  be,  may  be,  my  darling  ;  she  was  living  not 
long  since  ;  yet  it  can  never  matter  to  you  or  me  more. 
You  will  trust  me  in  this,  Adele  ?  "  And  he  kisses  her 
tenderly. 

And  she,  returning  the  caress,  but  bursting  into  tears 
as  she  does  so,  says,  — 

"  I  will,  I  do,  papa." 

"There,  there,  darling!" — as  he  folds  her  to  him; 
"  no  more  tears,  —  no  more  tears,  cherie  !  " 

But  even  while  he  says  it,  he  is  nervously  struggling 
with  his  own  emotion. 

Meantime  Adele  is  not  without  her  little  mementos 
of  the  life  at  Ashneld,  which  come  in  the  shape  of  thick 
double  letters  from  that  good  girl  Rose,  —  her  dear, 
dear  friend,  who  has  been  advised  by  the  little  traveler 
to  what  towns  she  should  direct  these  tender  missives  ; 
and  Adele  is  no  sooner  arrived  at  these  postal  stations 
than  she  sends  for  the  budget  which  she  knows  must  be 
waiting  for  her.  And  of  course  she  has  her  own  little 
pen  in  a  certain  traveling-escritoire  the  good  papa  has 
given  her  ;  and  she  plies  her  white  fingers  witli  it  often 
and  often  of  an  evening,  after  the  day's  sight-seeing  is 
over,  to  tell  Rose  in  return  what  a  charming  journey  she 
is  having,  and  how  kind  papa  is,  and  what  a  world  of 
strange  things  she  is  seeing  ;  and  there  are  descriptions 
of  sunsets  and  sunrises,  and  of  lakes  and  of  mountains, 
on  those  close-  writ  ten  sheets  of  hers,  which  Rose,  in  her 
enthusiasm,  declares  to  be  equal  to  many  descriptions 
in  print. 

Poor   Rose  feels   that   she  has   only  very  humdrum 


212  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

stories  to  tell  in  return  for  these  ;  but  she  ekes  out  her 
letters  pretty  well,  after  all,  and  what  they  lack  in  nov 
elty  is  made  up  in  affection. 

"There  is  really  nothing  new  to  tell,"  she  writes,  "  ex 
cept  it  be  that  our  old  friend,  Miss  Almira  Tourtelot, 
astonished  us  all  with  a  new  bonnet  last  Sunday,  and 
with  new  saffron  ribbons  ;  and  she  has  come  out,  too, 
in  the  new  tight  sleeves,  in  which  she  looks  drolly 
enough.  Phil  is  very  uneasy,  now  that  his  schooling  is 
done,  and  talks  of  going  to  the  West  Indies  about  some 
business  in  which  papa  is  concerned.  I  hope  he  will  go, 
if  he  does  n't  stay  too  long.  He  is  such  a  dear,  good 
fellow !  Madam  Aries  asks  after  you,  when  I  see  her, 
which  is  not  very  often  now  ;  for  since  the  Doctor  has 
come  back  from  New  York,  he  has  had  a  new  talk  with 
mamma,  and  has  quite  won  her  over  to  his  view  of  the 
matter.  So  good-by  to  French  for  the  present !  Heigho  ! 
But  I  don't  know  that  I  'm  sorry,  now  that  you  are  not 
here,  dear  Ady. 

"  Another  queer  thing  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell 
you.  The  poor  Boody  girl,  —  you  must  remember  her  ? 
Well,  she  has  come  back  on  a  sudden  ;  and  they  say 
her  father  will  not  receive  her  in  his  house,  —  there  are 
terrible  stories  about  it !  —  and  now  she  is  living  with  an 
old  woman  far  out  upon  the  river-road,  —  only  a  little 
garret-chamber  for  herself  and  the  child  she  brought  back 
with  her.  Of  course  nobody  goes  near  her,  or  looks  at 
her,  if  she  comes  on  the  street.  But  —  the  queerest 
thing !  —  when  Madame  Aries  heard  of  it  and  of  her 
story,  what  does  she  do  but  walk  far  out  to  visit  her,  and 


TRAVEL.  213 

talked  with  her  in  her  broken  English  for  an  hour,  they 
say.  Papa  says  she  (Madame  A.)  must  be  a  very  bad 
woman  or  a  very  good  woman.  But  —  good  or  bad  — • 
she  goes  away  presently  ;  rumor  says  to  France." 

And  again,  at  a  later  date,  Rose  writes,  — 

"The  Bowriggs  are  ail  off  for  the  winter,  and  the 
house  closed.  Reuben  has  been  here  on  a  flyiDg  visit  to 
the  parsonage  ;  and  how  proud  Miss  Eliza  was  of  her 
nephew !  He  came  over  to  see  Phil,  I  suppose ;  but 
Phil  had  gone  two  weeks  before.  Mamma  thinks  he  is 
fine-look  ing.  I  fancy  he  will  never  live  in  the  country 
again.  When  shall  I  see  you  again,  dear,  DEAB  Ady? 
I  have  so  m  itch  to  talk  to  you  about ! " 

A  month  thereafter  Maverick  and  his  daughter  find 
their  way  to  Ashfield.  Of  course  Miss  Johns  has  made 
magnificent  preparations  to  receive  them.  She  sur 
passed  herself  in  her  toilet  on  the  day  of  their  arrival, 
and  fairly  astonished  Maverick  with  the  warmth  of  her 
welcome  to  his  child.  Yet  he  could  not  help  observ 
ing  that  Adele  met  it  more  coolly  than  was  her  wont, 
and  that  her  tenderest  words  were  reserved  for  the  good 
Doctor.  And  how  proud  she  was  to  walk  with  her 
father  upon  the  village  street,  glancing  timidly  up  at  the 
windows  from  which  she  knew  those  stiff  old  Miss 
Hapgoocls  must  be  peeping  out !  How  proud  to  sit  be 
side  him  in  the  parson's  pew,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of 
half  the  congregation  were  fastened  on  the  tall  gentle 
man  beside  her ! 

Important  business  letters  command  Maverick's  early 
presence  abroad  ;  and,  after  conference  with  the  Doctor, 


214  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

he  decides  to  leave  Adele  once  more  under  the  roof  of 
the  parsonage. 

"Under  God,  I  will  do  for  her  what  I  can,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it,  my  good  friend,"  says  Mav 
erick.  "  Teach  her  self-reliance  ;  she  may  need  it  some 
day.  And  mind  what  I  have  said  of  this  French  woman, 
should  she  appear  again.  Adele  seems  to  have  a  ten- 
dresse  that  way.  Those  French  women  are  very  in 
sidious,  Johns." 

"  You  know  their  ways  better  than  I,"  said  the  Doc 
tor. 

A  little  afterwards  Maverick  was  humming  a  snatch 
from  an  opera  under  the  trees  of  the  orchard  ;  and 
Adele  went  bounding  toward  him,  to  take  the  last  walk 
with  him  for  so  long,  —  so  long  ! 


XXXVI. 

Illness. 

AUTUMN  and  winter  passed  by,  and  the  summer  of 
1838  opened  upon  the  old  quiet  life  of  Ashneld. 
The  stiff  Miss  Johns,  busy  with  her  household  duties,  or 
with  her  stately  visitings.  The  Doctor's  hat  and  cane 
in  their  usual  place  upon  the  little  table  within  the 
door,  and  of  a  Sunday  his  voice  is  lifted  up  under  the 
old  meeting-house  roof  in  earnest  expostulation.  The 
birds  pipe  their  old  songs,  and  the  orchard  has  shown 


ILLNESS.  215 

once  more  its  wondrous  glory  of  bloom.  But  all  these 
things  have  lost  their  novelty  for  Adele.  Would  it  be 
strange,  if  the  tranquil  life  of  the  little  town  had  lost 
something  of  its  early  charm  ?  That  swift  French  blood 
of  hers  has  been  stirred  by  contact  with  the  outside 
world.  She  has,  perhaps,  not  been  wholly  insensible  to 
those  admiring  glances  which  so  quickened  the  pride  of 
the  father. 

The  young  girl  is,  moreover,  greatly  disturbed  at  the 
thought  of  separation  from  her  father  continued  and  in 
definite.  It  is  all  the  worse  that  she  does  not  clearly 
perceive  the  necessity  for  it.  Is  she  not  of  an  age  now 
to  contribute  to  the  cheer  of  whatever  home  he  may 
have  beyond  the  sea?  Why,  pray,  has  he  given  her 
such  uninviting  pictures  of  his  companions  there  ?  Or 
is  it  that  her  religious  education  ^s  not  yet  thoroughly 
complete,  and  that  she  still  holds  out  against  a  full  and 
public  avowal  of  all  the  doctrines  which  the  Doctor 
urges  upon  her  acceptance  ?  And  the  thought  of  this 
makes  his  kindly  severities  appear  more  irksome  than 
ever. 

Another  cause  of  grief  to  Adele  is  the  extreme  dis 
favor  in  which  she  finds  that  Madame  Aries  (who  has  now 
re-appeared  in  Ashfield)  is  regarded  by  the  towns-people. 
Her  sympathies  had  run  towards  the  unfortunate  woman 
in  some  inexplicable  way,  and  held  there  even  now,  so 
strongly  that  contemptuous  mention  of  her  stung  like  a 
reproach  to  herself. 

"  I  never  liked  her  countenance,  Adele,"  said  the 
spinster,  in  her  solemn  manner ;  "  and  I  am  rejoiced 


216  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

that  you  will  not  be  under  her  influence  the  present 
summer." 

"  And  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Adele,  petulantly. 

"It  is  gratifying  to  me,"  continued  Miss  Eliza,  with 
out  notice  of  Adele's  interruption,  "that  Mr.  Maverick 
has  confirmed  my  own  impressions,  and  urged  the  Doc 
tor  against  permitting  so  unwise  association." 

"When?  how?"  said  Adele,  sharply.  "Papa  has 
never  seen  her." 

"  But  he  has  seen  other  French  women,  Adele,  and 
he  fears  their  influence." 

Adele  looked  keenly  at  the  spinster  for  a  moment,  as  if 
to  fathom  the  depth  of  this  reply,  then  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  why,  why  did  n't  he  take  me  with  him  ?  "  But 
this  she  says  under  breath,  and  to  herself,  as  she  rushes 
into  the  Doctor's  stuc^r  to  question  him. 

"Is  it  true,  New  Papa,  that  papa  thought  badly  of 
Madame  Aries  ?  " 

"  Not  personally,  my  child,  since  he  had  never  seen 
her.  But,  Adaly,  your  father,  though  I  fear  he  is  far 
away  from  the  true  path,  wishes  you  to  find  it,  my  child. 
He  has  faith  in  the  religon  we  teach  so  imperfectly  ;  he 
wishes  you  to  be  exposed  to  no  influences  that  will  for 
bid  your  full  acceptance  of  it." 

"  But  Madame  Aries  never  talked  of  religion  to  me  ;" 
and  Adele  taps  impatiently  upon  the  floor. 

"  That  may  be  true,  Adaly,  —  it  may  be  true  ;  but  we 
cannot  be  thrown  into  habits  of  intimacy  with  those 
reared  in  iniquity  without  fear  of  contracting  stain.  I 
could  wish,  my  child,  that  you  would  so  far  subdue 


2I> 

your  rebellious  heart,  and  put  on  the  complete  armor  of 
righteousness,  as  to  be  able  to  resist  all  attacks." 

"  And  it  was  for  this  papa  left  me  here  ?  "  And  Adele 
says  it  with  a  smile  of  mockery  that  alarms  the  good 
Doctor. 

"  I  trust  Adaly,  that  he  had  that  hope." 

The  little  foot  taps  more  and  more  impatiently  as  he 
goes  on  to  set  forth  (as  he  had  so  often  done)  the  hei- 
nousuess  of  her  offences  and  the  weight  of  her  just  con 
demnation.  Yet  the  antagonism  did  not  incline  her  to 
open  doubt ;  but  after  she  had  said  her  eveniog  prayer 
that  night,  (taught  her  by  the  parson,)  she  drew  out  her 
little  rosary  and  kissed  reverently  the  crucifix.  It  is  so 
much  easier  at  this  juncture  for  her  tried  and  distracted 
spirit  to  bolster  its  faith  upon  such  material  symbol 
than  to  find  repose  in  any  merely  intellectual  conviction 
of  truth. 

Adele's  intimacy  with  Eose  and  with  her  family  re 
tained  all  its  old  tenderness,  but  that  good  feUow  Phil 
was  gone.  Adele  missed  his  kindly  attentions  more  than 
she  would  have  believed.  The  Bowriggs  have  come  again 
to  Ashfielcl,  but  their  clamorous  friendship  is  more  than 
ever  distasteful  to  Adele.  Over  and  over  she  makes  a 
faint  of  illness  to  escape  the  noisy  hilarit}'.  Nor,  indeed, 
is  it  wholly  a  feint.  Whether  it  were  that  her  state  of 
moral  perturbation  and  unrest  reacted  upon  the  physi 
cal  system,  or  that  there  were  other  disturbing  causes, 
certain  it  was  that  the  roses  were  fading  from  her  cheeks, 
rind  that  her  step  was  losing  day  by  day  something  of 
its  old  buoyancy.  It  is  even  thought  best  to  summon 


2i8  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  village  doctor  to  the  family  council.  He  is  a  gossip 
ing,  kindly  old  gentleman,  who  spends  an  easy  life,  free 
from  much  mental  strain,  in  trying  k>  make  his  daily 
experiences  tally  with  the  little  fund  of  medical  science 
which  he  accumulated  thirty  years  before. 

The  serene  old  gentleman  feels  the  pulse,  with  his 
head  reflectively  on  one  side,  —  tells  his  little  jokelet 
about  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  or  some  other  worthy  of  the 
profession,  —  shakes  his  fat  sides  with  a  cheery  laugh, 

—  "  And  now,  my  dear,"  he  says,  "  let  us  look  at   the 
tongue.     Ah,  I  see,  I  see,  — the  stomach  lacks  tone." 

"And  there's  dreadful  lassitude,  sometimes,  Doctor," 
speaks  up  Miss  Eliza. 

"Ah  I  see,  —  a  little  exhaustion  after  a  long  walk, 

—  is  n't  it  so,  Miss  Maverick  ?      I  see,  I  see  ;  we  must 
brace  up  the  system,  Miss  Johns,  —  brace  up  the  system." 

And  the  kindly  old  gentleman  prescribes  his  little 
tonics,  of  which  Adele  takes  some,  and  throws  more  out 
of  the  window. 

Adele  does  not  mend,  and  the  rumor  is  presently  cur 
rent  upon  the  street  that  "  Miss  Adeel  is  in  a  decline." 
The  spinster  shows  a  solicitude  in  the  matter  which  al 
most  touches  the  heart  of  the  French  girl. 

Weeks  pass  by,  but  still  the  tonics  of  the  kindly  old 
physician  prove  of  little  efficacy. 

Adele  has  strength  however  for  an  occasional  stroll 
with  Eose,  and,  in  the  course  of  one  of  them,  comes 
upon  Madame  Aries,  whom  she  meets  with  a  good  deal 
of  her  old  effusion.  And  Madame,  touched  by  her  ap 
parent  weakness,  more  than  reciprocates  it. 


ILLNESS.  219 

"  But  you  suffer,  you  are  unhappy,  my  child,  —  'tis  the 
sun  of  Provence  yon  need.  Is  n't  it  so,  mon  ange  ?  No, 
no,  you  were  never  meant  to  grow  up  among  these  cold 
people.  You  must  see  the  vineyards,  and  the  olives, 
and  the  sea,  Adele  ;  you  must !  you  must !  " 

All  this,  uttered  in  a  torrent,  which,  with  its  tutoie- 
ments,  Eose  can  poorly  comprehend. 

Yet  it  goes  straight  to  the  heart  of  Adele,  and  her 
tongue  is  loosened  to  a  little  petulant,  fiery,  roulade 
against  the  severities  of  the  life  around  her,  which  it 
would  have  greatly  pained  poor  Rose  to  listen  to  in  any 
speech  of  her  own. 

But  such  interviews,  once  or  twice  repeated,  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  the  watchful  spinster,  who  clearly  per 
ceives  that  Adele  is  chafing  more  and  more  under  the 
wonted  family  regimen.  With  an  affectation  of  tender 
solicitude,  she  volunteers  to  attend  Adele  upon  her  short 
morning  strolls,  and  she  learns  presently,  with  great  tri 
umph,  that  Madam  Aries  has  established  herself  at  last 
under  the  same  roof  which  gives  refuge  to  the  outcast 
Boody  woman.  Nothing  more  was  needed  to  seal  the 
opinion  of  the  spinster,  and  to  confirm  the  current  village 
belief  in  the  heathenish  character  of  the  French  lady. 
Dame  Tourtelot  was  shrewdly  of  the  opinion  that  the 
woman  represented  some  Popish  plot  for  the  abduction 
of  Adele,  and  for  her  incarceration  in  a  nunnery,  —  a 
theory  which  Miss  Almira,  with  her  natural  tendency  i,o 
romance,  industriously  propagated. 

Before  July  is  ended  a  serious  illness  has  declared  it 
self,  and  Adele  is  confined  to  her  chamber.  Madame 


220  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

Aries  is  among  the  earliest  who  come  with  eager  in 
quiries,  and  begs  to  see  the  sufferer.  But  she  is  con 
fronted  by  the  indefatigable  spinster.  Madame  with 
draws,  sadly  ;  but  the  visit  and  the  claim  are  repeated 
from  time  to  time,  until  the  stately  civility  of  Miss  Johns 
arouses  her  suspicions. 

"  You  deny  me,  Madame.  You  do  wrong.  I  love 
Adele  ;  she  loves  me.  I  know  that  I  could  comfort  her. 
You  do  not  understand  her  nature.  She  was  born  where 
the  sky  is  soft  and  warm.  You  are  all  cold  and  harsh, 
—  she  has  told  rue  as  much.  I  know  how  she  suffers.  I 
wish  I  could  carry  her  back  to  France  with  me.  I  pray 
you,  let  me  see  her,  good  Madame  ! " 

"It  is  quite  impossible,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  spin 
ster,  in  her  most  aggravating  manner.  "It  would  be 
quite  against  the  wishes  of  my  brother,  the  Doctor,  as 
well  as  of  Mr.  Maverick." 

"  Monsieur  Maverick  !  Mon  Dieu,  Madame  !  He  is 
no  father  to  her  ;  he  leaves  her  to  die  with  strangers  ; 
he  has  no  heart ;  I  have  better  right  :  I  love  her.  I 
must  see  her  !  " 

And  with  a  passionate  step,  —  those  eyes  of  hers  glar 
ing  in  that  strange  double  way  upon  the  amazed  Miss 
Eliza,  —  she  strides  toward  the  door,  as  if  she  would 
overcome  all  opposition.  But  before  she  has  gone  out, 
that  cruel  pain  has  seized  her,  and  she  sinks  upon  a 
chair,  quite  prostrated,  and  with  hands  clasped  wildly 
over  that  burden  of  a  heart. 

"  Too  hard  !  too  hard  !  "  she  murmurs,  scarce  above 
her  breath. 


ILLNESS.  221 

The  spinster  is  attentive,  but  is  untouched. 

The  good  Doctor  is  greatly  troubled  by  the  report  of 
Miss  Eliza.  Can  it  be  possible  that  Adele  has  given  a 
confidence  to  this  strange  woman  that  she  has  not  given 
to  them  ?  Cold  and  harsh  !  Can  Adele,  indeed,  have 
said  this  ?  Has  he  not  labored  with  a  full  heart  ?  Has 
he  not  agonized  in  prayer  to  draw  in  this  wandering 
lamb  to  the  fold  ? 

It  touches  him  to  the  quick  to  think  that  her  childlike, 
trustful  confidence  is  at  last  alienated  from  him,  —  that 
her  affection  for  him  is  so  distempered  by  dread  and 
weariness.  For,  unconsciously,  he  has  grown  to  love 
her  as  he  loves  no  one  save  his  boy  Reuben.  Through 
her  winning,  playful  talk,  he  has  taken  up  that  old  trail 
of  worldly  affections  which  he  had  thought  buried  for 
ever  in  Rachel's  grave.  That  tender  touch  of  her  little 
fingers  upon  his  cheek  has  seemed  to  say,  "  Life  has  its 
joys,  old  man  ! '"'  The  patter  of  her  feet  along  the  house 
has  kindled  the  memories  of  other  gentle  steps  that  tread 
now  silently  in  the  courts  of  air.  Those  songs  of  hers, 
—  how  he  has  loved  them  ! 

And  the  good  man,  with  such  thoughts  thronging  on 
him,  falls  upon  his  knees,  beseeching  God  to  "  be  over 
the  sick  child,  to  comfort  her,  to  heal  her,  to  pour  down 
His  divine  grace  upon  her,  to  open  her  blind  eyes  to  the 
richness  of  His  truth.'"' 

Rising  from  his  attitude  of  prayer,  and  going  toward 
the  little  window  of  his  study  to  arrange  it  for  the  night, 
the  Doctor  sees  a  slight  figure  in  black  pacing  up  and 
down  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  looking 


222  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

up  from  time  to  time  to  the  light  that  is  burning  in  the 
window  of  Adele.  He  knows  on  the  instant  who  it  must 
be,  and  fears  more  than  ever  the  possible  influence 
which  this  strange  woman,  who  is  so  persistent  in  her 
attention,  may  have  upon  the  heart  of  the  girl. 

Like  most  holy  men,  ignorant  of  the  crafts  and  devices 
of  the  world,  he  no  sooner  blundered  into  a  suspicion  of 
some  deep  Devil's  cunning  than  every  footfall  and  every 
floating  zephyr  seemed  to  confirm  it. 


XXXVII. 

Shortcomings   of  Reuben. 

MEANTIME  Reuben  was  gaining,  month  by  month, 
in  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  —  at  least  of  such 
portion  of  it  as  came  within  the  range  of  his  vision  in 
New  York.  He  thought  with  due  commiseration  of  the 
humble  people  of  Ashfield.  He  wonders  how  he  could 
have  tolerated  so  long  their  simple  ways.  The  Eagle 
Tavern,  with  its  creaking  sign-board,  does  not  loom  so 
largely  as  it  once  did  upon  the  horizon  of  his  thought. 

He  has  put  Phil  through  some  of  the  "  sights  : "  for 
that  great  lout  of  a  country  lad  (as  Reuben  could  not 
help  counting  him,  though  he  liked  his  big,  honest 
heart  for  all  that)  had  found  him  out,  when  he  came  to 
New  York  to  take  ship  for  the  West  Indies. 

"I  say,  Phil,"  Reuben  had  said,  as  he  marched  his 
old  schoolmate  up  Broadway,  "  it 's  rather  a  touch  be- 


SHORTCOMINGS   OF  REUBEN.  223 

yond  Ashfield,  this,  is  n't  it  ?  How  do  you  think  Old 
Boody's  tavern  and  sign-board  would  look  along  here  ?  " 

And  Phil  laughed,  quietly. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  old  Deacon  Tourtelot,"  continued 
Reuben,  "  with  Huldy  on  his  arm,  sloping  down  Broad 
way.  Would  n't  the  old  people  stare  ?  " 

"  I  guess  they  would,"  Phil  said,  demurely. 

"  I  wonder  if  they  'd  knock  off  at  sundown  Saturday 
night,"  continued  Reuben,  mockingly. 

And  his  tone  somehow  hurt  Phil,  who  had  the  mem 
ories  of  the  old  home  —  a  very  dear  one  to  him  —  fresh 
upon  him. 

"  And  I  suppose  Miss  Almiry  keeps  at  her  singing  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Phil,  straining  a  point  in  favor  of  his 
townswoman  ;  "and  I  think  she  sings  pretty  well." 

It  seemed  to  him,  in  his  honesty,  that  Reuben  was 
wantonly  cutting  asunder  all  the  ties  that  once  bound 
him  to  the  old  home.  It  pained  him,  moreover,  to  think 
—  as  he  did,  with  a  good  deal  of  restiveness  —  that  his 
blessed  mother,  and  Rose  perhaps,  and  the  old  Squire, 
his  father,  were  among  the  Ashfield  people  at  whom 
Reuben  sneered  so  glibly.  And  when  he  parted  with 
him  upon  the  dock,  —  for  Reuben  had  gone  down  to 
see  him  oif,  —  it  was  with  a  secret  conviction  that  their 
old  friendship  had  come  to  an  end,  and  that  thenceforth 
they  two  could  have  no  sympathies  in  common. 

But  in  this  Phil  was  by  no  means  wholly  right.  The 
talk  of  Reuben  was.  after  all,  but  the  ebullition  of  a  city 
conceit,  —  a  conceit  which  is  apt  to  belong  to  all  young 
men  at  some  period  of  their  novitiate  in  city  life. 


224  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

On  the  very  night  after  Reuben  had  parted  from  Phil, 
when  he  came  late  to  his  chamber,  dazed  with  some  new 
scene  at  the  theater,  and  his  brain  flighty  with  a  cup  too 
much,  it  may  well  have  happened,  that  in  his  fevered 
restlessness,  as  the  clock  near  by  chimed  midnight,  his 
thoughts  ran  back  to  that  other  chamber  where  once 
sweet  sleep  always  greeted  him,  —  to  the  overhanging 
boughs  that  rustled  in  the  evening  air  at  the  window,  — 
to  the  shaded  street  that  stretched  away  between  the 
silent  houses,  — to  the  song  of  the  katydids,  chattering 
their  noisy  chorus,  —  to  the  golden  noons  when  light  feet 
tripped  along  the  village  walks,  —  to  the  sunny  smiles  of 
Hose,  —  to  the  kindly  entreaty  of  good  Mrs.  Elderkin,  — 
and  more  faintly,  yet  more  tenderly,  than  elsewhere,  to  a 
figure  and  face  far  remote,  and  so  glorified  by  distance 
that  they  seem  almost  divine,  a  figure  and  face  that 
are  somehow  associated  with  the  utterance  of  his  first 
prayer,  —  and  with  the  tender  vision  before  him,  he 
mumbles  the  same  prayer  and  falls  asleep  with  it  upon 
his  lip. 

Only  on  his  lip,  however,  —  and  the  next  day,  when 
he  steals  a  half-hour  for  a  stroll  upon  Broadway  with 
that  dashing  girl,  Miss  Sophia  Bowrigg,  (she  is  really  a 
stylish  creature, )  he  has  very  little  thought  of  the  dreamy 
sentiments  of  the  night  before,  which  seemed  for  the 
time  to  keep  his  wilder  vagaries  in  subjection,  and  to 
kindle  aspirations  toward  a  better  life.  It  is  doubtful, 
even,  if  he  did  not  indulge  in  an  artful  compliment  or 
two  to  the  dashing  Miss  Sophia,  the  point  of  which  lay 
in  a  cleverly  covered  contrast  of  herself  with  the  hum- 


SHORTCOMINGS   OF  REUBEN.  225 

drum  manners  of  the  fair  ones  of  Ashfield.  Yet,  to  tell 
truth,  he  is  not  wholly  untouched  by  certain  little  ral 
lying,  coquettish  speeches  of  Miss  Sophia  in  respect  to 
Adele,  who,  in  her  open,  girl-like  way,  has  very  likely 
told  the  full  story  of  Reuben's  city  attentions. 

Reuben  had,  indeed,  been  piqued  by  the  French 
girl's  reception  of  his  patronage,  and  he  had  been  fairly 
carried  off  his  feet  in  view  of  her  easy  adaptation  to  the 
ways  of  the  city,  and  of  her  graceful  carriage  under  all 
the  toilet  equipments  which  had  been  lavished  upon  her, 
under  the  advice  of  Mrs.  Brindlock.  A  raw7  boy  comes 
only  by  long  aptitude  into  the  freedom  of  a  worldly 
manner  ;  but  a  girl  —  most  of  all  a  French  girl,  in  whom 
the  instincts  of  her  race  are  strong  —  leaps  to  such  con 
quest  in  a  day.  Of  course  he  had  intimated  to  Adele  no 
wonder  at  the  change  ;  but  he  had  thrust  a  stray  glove 
of  hers  into  his  pocket,  counting  it  only  a  gallant  theft ; 
and  there  had  been  days  when  he  had  drawn  out  that 
little  relic  of  her  visit  from  its  hidden  receptacle,  and 
smoothed  it  upon  his  table,  and  pressed  it,  very  likely, 
to  his  lips,  in  the  same  way  in  which  youth  of  nineteen  or 
twenty  are  used  to  treat  such  feminine  tokens  of  grace. 

It  was  a  dainty  glove,  to  be  sure.  It  conjured  up  her 
presence  in  its  most  alluring  aspect.  The  rustle  of  her 
silk,  the  glow  of  her  cheek,  the  coyness  of  her  touch, 
whenever  she  has  dropped  that  delicate  hand  on  his, 
came  with  the  sight  of  it.  He  ventures,  in  a  moment  of 
gallant  exuberance,  to  purchase  a  half-dozen  of  the  same 
number,  of  very  charming  tints,  (to  his  eye,)  and  sends 
them  as  a  gift  to  Adele,  saying,  — 
15 


226  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  I  found  your  stray  glove  we  had  a  search  for  in 
the  carriage,  but  did  not  tell  of  it.  I  hope  these  will 
fit," 

"They  fit  nicely,"  said  Adele,  writing  back  to  him,  — • 
"  so  nicely,  I  may  be  tempted  to  throw  another  old 
glove  of  mine  some  time  in  your  way." 

Miss  Eliza  Johns  was  of  course  delighted  with  this  at 
tention  of  Reuben's,  and  made  it  the  occasion  of  writing 
him  a  long  letter,  (and  her  letters  were  very  rare,  by 
reason  of  the  elaboration  she  counted  necessary,)  in 
which  she  set  forth  the  excellence  of  Adele's  character, 
her  "  propriety  of  speech,"  her  "  lady-like  deportment," 
her  "  cheerful  observance  of  duty,"  and  her  "  eminent 
moral  worth,"  in  such  terms  as  stripped  all  romance 
from  Reuben's  recollection  of  her,  and  made  him  more 
than  half  regret  his  gallant  generosity. 

The  Doctor  writes  to  him  regularly  once  a  fortnight ; 
of  which  missives  Reuben  reads  as  regularly  the  last 
third,  containing,  as  it  does  usually,  a  little  home  news 
or  casual  mention  of  Miss  Rose  Elderldn  or  of  the  family 
circle.  The  other  two  thirds,  mainly  expostulatory,  he 
skips,  only  allowing  his  eye  to  glance  over  them,  and 
catch  such  scattered  admonitions  as  these  : — "  Be  stead 
fast  in  the  truth Be  not  tempted  of  the  Devil ; 

for  if  you  resist  him,  he  will  flee  from  you " 

Ah,  how  much  of  such  good  advice  had  been  twisted 
into  tapers  for  the  lighting  of  Reuben's  cigars !  It  is 
certain  that  he  loved  his  father  ;  it  is  certain  that  he  ven 
erated  him  ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  (he  said  to  himself,)  "  I 
do  wish  he  would  keep  this  solemn  stuff  for  his  sermons. 


SHORTCOMINGS   OF  REUBEN.  227 

Who  cares  to  read  it  ?  Who  cares  to  hear  it,  except  on 
Sundays?" 

And  when  Mr.  Brindlock  wrote,  as  he  took  occasion 
to  do  about  this  period,  regretting  the  extravagance  of 
Reuben  and  the  bad  associations  into  which  he  had  fal 
len,  and  urging  the  Doctor  to  impress  upon  him  the  ad 
vantages  of  regularity  and  of  promptitude,  and  to  warn 
him  that  a  very  advantageous  business  career  which  was 
opening  upon  him  would  be  blighted  by  his  present 
habits,  the  poor  gentleman  was  fairly  taken  aback. 

What  admonition  could  the  Doctor  add  to  those  which 
he  had  addressed  to  his  poor  son  fortnightly  for  years 
past  ?  Had  he  not  unfolded  the  terrors  of  God's  wrath 
upon  sinners  ?  However,  the  Doctor  wrote  to  Eeuben 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  unction.  But  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  warn  his  boy  of  the  mere  blight  to 
his  worldly  career,  —  that  was  so  small  a  matter  !  Yet 
he  laid  before  him  in  graver  terms  than  he  had  ever 
done  before  the  weight  of  the  judgment  of  an  offended 
God.  Reuben  lighted  his  cigar  with  the  letter,  not  un 
feelingly,  but  indifferently. 

"  It  ought  to  burn,"  he  says.  "  There  's  plenty  of 
brimstone  in  it ! " 

It  would  have  crazed  the  minister  of  Ashfield  to  have 
heard  the  speech.  In  his  agony  of  mind  he  went  to 
consult  Squire  Elderkin,  and  laid  before  him  the  dire 
accounts  he  had  heard. 

"  Ah,  young  men  will  be  young  men,  Doctor.  There 's 
time  for  him  to  come  out  right  yet.  It 's  the  blood  of 
the  old  Major  ;  it  must  have  vent." 


228  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

As  the  Doctor  recalled  what  he  counted  his  father's 
godless  death,  he  shuddered.  Presently  he  talked  of 
summoning  his  boy  home  immediately. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  the  Squire,  meditatively,  "there 
are  two  sides  to  that  matter.  There  are  great  temp 
tations  in  the  city,  to  be  sure  ;  but  if  God  puts  a 
man  in  the  way  of  great  temptations,  I  suppose  He 
gives  him  strength  to  resist  them.  Is  n't  that  good 
theology  ?  " 

The  parson  nodded  assent. 

"  We  can  always  resist,  if  we  will,  Squire,"  said  he. 

"  Very  good,  Doctor.  Suppose,  now,  you  bring  your 
boy  home ;  he  '11  fret  desperately  under  your  long  lec 
tures,  and  with  Miss  Eliza,  and  perhaps  run  off  into 
deviltries  that  will  make  him  worse  than  those  of  the 
city.  You  must  humor  him  a  little,  Doctor  ;  touch  his 
pride ;  there  's  a  fine,  frank  spirit  at  the  bottom  ;  give 
him  a  good  word  now  and  then." 

"I  knownowrord  so  good  as  prayer,"  said  the  Doc 
tor,  gravely. 

"  That 's  very  well,  Doctor,  very  well.  Mrs.  Elderkin 
gives  him  help  that  way  ;  and  between  you  and  me, 
Doctor,  if  any  woman's  prayers  can  call  down  blessings, 
I  think  that  little  woman's  can." 

"  An  estimable  lady,  —  most  estimable  !  "  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Pray,  if  you  will,  Doctor  ;  it 's  all  right ;  and  for  my 
part,  1 11  drop  him  a  line,  telling  him  the  town  feels  an 
ownership  in  him,  and  hopes  he  '11  do  us  all  credit.  I 
think  we  can  bring  him  out  all  right." 


A  NEW  EXPERIENCE.  229 

"  Thank  you,  —  thank  you,  Squire,"  said  the  Doctor, 
with  an  unusual  warmth. 

And  he  wrought  fervently  in  prayer  that  night ;  may 
be,  too,  the  hearty  invocation  of  that  good  woman,  Mrs. 
Elderkiu,  joined  with  his  in  the  Celestial  Presence  ;  and 
if  the  kindly  letter  of  the  Squire  did  not  rank  with  the 
prayers,  we  may  believe,  without  hardihood,  that  the  re 
cording  angel  took  note  of  it,  and  gave  credit  on  the 
account  current  of  human  charities. 


xxxvm. 

A  New  Experience. 

MR  BRIXDLOCK  had,  may  be,  exaggerated  some 
what  the  story  of  Reuben's  extravagances,  but 
he  was  anxious  that  a  word  of  caution  should  be 
dropped  in  his  ear  from  some  other  lips  than  his  own. 
The  allowance  from  the  Doctor,  notwithstanding  all  the 
economies  of  Miss  Eliza's  frugal  administration,  would 
have  been,  indeed,  somewhat  narrow,  and  could  by  no 
means  have  kept  Reuben  upon  his  feet  in  the  ambitious 
city-career  upon  which  he  had  entered.  But  Mr.  Brind- 
lock  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  lad,  and  besides  the 
stipend  granted  for  his  duties  about  the  counting-room, 
had  given  him  certain  shares  in  a  few  private  ventures 
which  had  resulted  very  prosperously,  —  so  prosper 
ously,  indeed,  that  the  prudent  merchant  had  deter 
mined  to  hold  the  full  knowledge  of  the  success  in 


230  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

reserve.  The  prospects  of  Reuben,  however,  he  being 
the  favorite  nephew  of  a  well-established  merchant, 
were  regarded  by  the  most  indifferent  observers  as  ex 
tremely  flattering ;  and  Mr.  Bowrigg  was  not  disposed 
to  look  unfavorably  upon  the  young  man's  occasional 
attentions  to  the  dashing  Sophia. 

It  was  some  time  in  the  month  of  September,  of  the 
same  autumn  in  which  poor  Adele  lay  sick  at  the  par 
sonage,  that  Reuben  came  in  one  night,  at  twelve  or 
thereabout,  to  his  home  at  the  Brindlocks',  (living  at 
this  time  in  the  neighborhood  of  Washington  Square,) 
with  his  head  cruelly  battered,  and  altogether  in  a  very 
piteous  plight.  Mrs.  Brindlock,  terribly  frightened,  — 
in  her  woman's  way,  —  was  for  summoning  the  Doctor 
at  once  ;  but  Reuben  pleaded  against  it ;  he  had  been 
in  a  row,  that  was  all,  and  had  caught  a  big  knock  or 
two.  The  truth  was,  he  had  been  upon  one  of  his 
frolics  with  his  old  boon  companions  ;  and  it  so  hap 
pened  that  one  had  spoken  sneeringly  of  the  parson's 
son,  in  a  way  which  to  the  fiery  young  fellow  seemed  to 
cast  ridicule  upon  the  old  gentleman.  And  thereupon 
Reuben,  though  somewhat  maudlin  with  wine,  yet 
with  the  generous  spirit  not  wholly  quenched  in  him, 
had  entered  upon  a  glowing  little  speech  in  praise  of 
the  old  gentleman  and  of  his  profession,  —  a  speech 
which,  if  it  were  garnished  with  here  and  there  an 
objectionable  expletive,  was  very  earnest  and  did  him 
credit. 

"  Good  for  Reuben  !  "  the  party  had  cried  out.  "  Get 
him  a  pulpit !  " 


A  NEW  EXPERIENCE.  231 

"Hang  me,  if  he  would  n't  preach  better  now  than  the 
old  man  !  "  said  one. 

"And  a  deuced  sight  livelier,"  said  another. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  blackguard  !"  burst  out 
Reuben. 

And  from  this  the  matter  came  very  shortly  to  blows, 
in  the  course  of  which  poor  Reuben  was  severely  pun 
ished,  though  he  must  have  hit  some  hard  blows  ;  for  he 
was  wondrously  active,  and  not  a  few  boxing-lessons  had 
gone  to  make  up  the  tale  of  his  city  accomplishments. 

Howbeit.  he  was  housed  now,  in  view  of  his  black  eye, 
for  many  days,  and  had  ample  time  for  reflection.  In 
aid  of  this  came  a  full  sheet  of  serious  expostulations 
from  the  Doctor,  and  that  letter  of  advice  which  Squire 
Elderkin  had  promised,  with  a  little  warm-hearted 
postscript  from  good  Mrs.  Elderkin,  —  so  unlike  to  the 
carefully  modulated  letters  of  Aunt  Eliza  !  The  Doc 
tor's  missive,  very  likely,  did  not  impress  him  more  than 
the  scores  that  had  gone  before  it  ;  but  there  was  a 
practical  tact,  and  good-natured,  common-sense  home 
liness,  in  the  urgence  of  the  Squire,  which  engaged  all 
Reuben's  attention  ;  and  the  words  of  the  good  woman, 
his  wife,  were  worth  more  than  a  sermon  to  him.  "  We 
all  want,"  she  writes,  "to  think  well  of  you,  Reuben  ; 
we  do  think  well  of  you.  Don't  disappoint  us.  I  can't 
think  of  the  cheery,  bright  face,  that  for  so  many  an 
evening  shone  amid  our  household,  as  any  thing  but 
bright  and  cheery  now.  We  all  pray  for  your  well-being 
and  happiness,  Reuben  ;  and  I  do  hope  you  have  not 
forgotten  to  pray  for  it  yourself." 


232  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

And  with  the  memory  of  the  kindly  woman  which 
this  letter  called  up  came  a  pleasant  vision  of  the  win 
some  face  of  Rose,  as  she  used  to  sit,  with  downcast  eyes, 
beside  her  mother  in  the  old  house  of  Ashfield,  —  of 
Rose,  as  she  used  to  lower  upon  him  in  their  frolic,  with 
those  great  hazel  eyes  sparkling  with  indignation.  And 
if  the  vision  did  not  quicken  any  lingering  sentiment,  it 
at  the  least  gave  a  mellow  tint  to  his  thought,  —  a  mel 
lowness  wrhich  even  the  hardness  of  Aunt  Eliza  could 
not  wholly  do  awray. 

"I  feel  it  my  duty  to  write  you,  Reuben,"  she  says, 
"  and  to  inform  you  how  very  much  we  have  all  been 
shocked  and  astonished  by  the  accounts  which  reach  us 
of  your  continued  indifference  to  religious  duties,  and 
your  reckless  extravagance.  Let  me  implore  you  to  be 
frugal  and  virtuous.  If  you  learn  to  save  now,  the 
habit  will  be  of  very  great  service  when  you  come  to 
take  your  stand  on  the  arena  of  life.  I  am  aware  that 
the  temptations  of  a  great  city  are  almost  innumerable  ; 
but  I  need  hardly  inform  you  that  you  will  greatly  con 
sult  your  own  interests  and  mitigate  our  harassment  of 
feeling  by  practising  a  strict  economy  with  your  funds, 
and  by  attending  regularly  at  church.  You  will  excuse 
all  errors  in  my  writing,  since  I  indite  this  by  the  sick 
bed  of  Adele." 

Adele,  then,  is  ill  ;  and  upon  that  point  alone  in  the 
Aunt's  letter  the  thought  of  Reuben  fastens.  Adole  is 
ill !  He  knows  where  she  must  be  lying, —  in  that  little 
room  at  the  parsonage  looking  out  upon  the  orchard  ; 
there  are  white  hangings  to  the  bed  ;  careful  steps  go 


A  NEW  EXPERIENCE.  233 

up  and  down  the  stair-way.  There  had  never  been 
much  illness  in  the  parson's  home,  indeed,  but  certain 
early  awful  days  Reuben  just  remembers  ;  there  were 
white  bed-curtains,  (he  recalls  those,)  and  a  face  as  whits 
lying  beneath  ;  the  nurse,  too,  lifting  a  warning  finger 
at  him  with  alow  "hist !  "  the  knocker  tied  over  thickly 
with  a  great  muffler  of  cloth,  lest  the  sound  might  come 
into  the  chamber  ;  and  then,  awful  stillness.  On  a 
morning  later,  all  the  windows  were  suddenly  thrown 
open,  and  strange  men  brought  a  red  coffin  into  the 
house,  which,  after  a  day  or  two,  went  out  borne  by 
different  people,  who  trod  uneasily  and  awkwardly  un 
der  the  weight,  but  very  softly ;  and  after  this  a  weary 
loneliness.  All  which  drifting  over  the  mind  of  Reuben, 
and  stirring  his  sensibilities  with  a  quick  rush  of  vague, 
boyish  griefs,  induces  a  train  of  melancholy  religious 
musings,  which,  if  they  do  no  good,  can  hardly,  it  would 
seem,  work  harm.  Under  their  influence,  indeed, 
(which  lasted  for  several  days,)  he  astonished  his  Aunt 
Mabel,  on  the  next  Sunday,  by  declaring  his  intention  to 
attend  church. 

It  is  not  the  ponderous  Dr.  Mowry,  fortunately  or  un 
fortunately,  that  he  is  called  upon  to  listen  to  ;  but  a 
younger  man,  of  ripe  age,  indeed,  but  full  of  fervor  and* 
earnestness,  and  with  a  piercing  magnetic  quality  of 
voice  that  electrifies  from  the  beginning.  And  Eeuben 
listens  to  his  reading  of  the  hymn,  — 

"  Return,  O  wanderer!   now  return  !  " 
with  parted  lips,  and  with  an  exaltation  of  feeling  that  is 


234  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

wholly  strange  to  him.  With  the  prayer  it  seems  to  him 
that  all  the  religious  influences  to  which  he  has  ever 
been  subject  are  slowly  and  surely  converging  their 
forces  upon  his  mind  ;  and,  rapt  as  he  is  in  the  preach 
er's  utterance,  there  come  to  him  shadowy  recollections 
of  some  tender  admonition  addressed  to  him  by  dear 
wromanly  lips  in  boyhood,  which  now,  on  a  sudden, 
flames  into  the  semblance  of  a  Divine  summons.  Then 
comes  the  sermon,  from  the  text,  "  My  son,  give  me 
thine  heart."  There  is  no  repulsive  formality,  no  array 
of  logical  presentments  to  arouse  antagonism  of  thought, 
but  only  inglowing  enthusiasm,  that  transfuses  the 
Scriptural  appeal,  and  illuminates  it  with  winning  illus 
tration.  Reuben  sees  that  the  evangelist  feels  in  his  in 
most  soul  what  he  utters  ;  the  thrill  of  his  voice  and  the 
touching  earnestness  of  his  manner  declare  it.  It  is  as 
if  our  eager  listener  were,  by  every  successive  appeal, 
placed  in  full  rapport  with  a  great  battery  of  religious 
emotions,  and  at  every  touch  were  growing  into  fuller 
and  fuller  entertainment  of  the  truths  which  so  fired  and 
sublimed  the  speaker's  utterance. 

All  thought  of  God  the  Avenger  and  of  God  the 
Judge,  which  had  been  so  linked  with  most  of  his  boyish 
instructions,  seemed  now  to  melt  away  in  an  aureole  of 
golden  light,  through  which  he  saw  only  God  the  Fa 
ther.  And  the  first  prayer  he  ever  learned  comes  to  his 
mind  with  a  grace  and  a  meaning  arad  a  power  that  he 
never  felt  before. 

"Whether  we  obey  Him,"  (it  is  the  preacher  we 
quote,)  "  or  distrust  Him,  or  revile  Him,  or  forget  Him, 


A  NEW  EXPERIENCE.  235 

or  struggle  to  ignore  Him,  always,  —  always  He  is  our 
Father.  And  whatever  we  may  do,  however  we  may  sin, 
however  recreant  we  may  be  to  early  faith  or  early  teach 
ing,  however  unmoved  by  the  voice  of  conscience,  — 
which  is  smiting  on  your  hearts  as  it  is  on  mine  to-day, 
—  whatever  we  are,  or  whatever  we  may  be,  yet,  ever 
while  life  is  in  us,  that  great,  serene  voice  of  the  All- 
Merciful  is  sounding  in  our  ears,  '  My  son,  give  me  thine 
heart ! ' " 

And  Reuben  says  to  himself,  yet  almost  audibly,  "  I 
will." 

The  sermon  was  altogether  such  a  one  as  to  act  with 
prodigious  force  upon  so  emotional  a  nature  as  that  of 
Reuben.  Yet  wTe  dare  say  there  were  gray-haired  men 
in  the  church,  and  sallow-faced  young  men,  who  nodded 
their  heads  wisely  and  coolly,  as  they  went  out,  saying, 
"  An  eloquent  sermon,  quite  ;  but  not  much  argument 
in  it."  As  if  all  men  were  to  plod  to  heaven  on  the  ver- 
tebne  of  an  inexorable  logic,  and  not  —  God  willing  — 
to  be  rapt  away  thitherward  by  the  clinging  force  of  a 
glowing  and  confiding  heart ! 

"  Is  this  religion  ?  "  Reuben  asked  himself,  as  he  went 
out  of  the  church,  with  his  pride  all  subdued.  And  the 
very  atmosphere  seemed  to  wear  a  new  glory,  and  a  new 
lien  of  brotherhood  to  tie  him  to  every  creature  he  met 
upon  the  thronged  streets.  All  the  time,  too,  was 
sounding  in  his  ear  (as  if  he  had  yielded  full  assent)  the 
mellow  and  grateful  cadence  of  the  hymn,  — 

"  Return,  O  wanderer  !  now  return  !  " 


236  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

XXXIX. 

Reuben  makes  a  Proselyte. 

REUBEN  wrote  to  the  Doctor,  under  the  influence 
of  this  new  glow  of  feeling,  in  a  way  that  at  once 
amazed  and  delighted  the  good  old  gentleman.  And 
yet  there  were  ill-defined,  but  very  decided,  terrors  and 
doubts  in  his  delight.  Dr.  Johns,  by  nature  as  well  as 
by  education,  was  disposed  to  look  distrustfully  upon  a 
sudden  conviction  of  duty  which  had  its  spring  in  any 
extraordinary  exaltation  of  feeling,  rather  than  in  that- 
full  intellectual  seizure  of  the  Word,  which  it  seemed 
to  him  could  come  only  after  a  determined  wrestling 
with  those  dogmas  that  to  his  mind  were  the  aptest  and 
compactest  expression  of  the  truth  toward  which  we 
must  agonize.  The  day  of  Pentecost  showed  a  great 
miracle,  indeed  ;  but  was  not  the  day  of  miracles  past  ? 

The  Doctor,  however,  did  not  allow  his  entertainment 
of  a  secret  fear  to  color  in  any  way  his  letters  of  earnest 
gratulation  to  his  son.  If  God  has  miraculously  snatched 
him  from  the  ways  that  lead  to  destruction,  (such  was  his 
thought,)  let  us  rejoice. 

'•Be  steadfast,  my  clear  Reuben,"  he  writes.  "You 
have  now  a  cross  to  bear.  Do  not  dishonor  its  holy 
character ;  do  not  faint  upon  the  way.  Our  beloved 
Adele,  as  you  have  been  told,  is  trembling  upon  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  May  God  in  His  mercy  spare  her, 


REUBEN  MAKES  A   PROSELYTE,  237 

until,  at  least,  she  gain  some  more  fitting  sense  of  the 
great  mission  of  His  Son  !  It  pains  me  beyond  belief  to 
find  her  indifferent  to  the  godly  counsels  of  your  pious 
aunt,  which  she  does  not  fail  to  urge  upon  her,  '  in  sea 
son  and  out  of  season  ; '  and  she  has  shown  a  tenacity  in 
guarding  that  wretched  relic  of  her  early  life,  the  rosary 
and  crucifix,  which,  I  fear,  augurs  the  worst.  Pray  for 
her,  my  son  ;  pray  that  all  the  vanities  and  idolatries  of 
this  world  may  be  swept  from  her  thoughts." 

And  Reuben,  still  living  in  that  roseate  atmosphere  of 
religious  meditation,  is  shocked  by  this  story  of  the  dan 
ger  of  Adele.  Is  he  not  himself  in  some  measure  ac 
countable  ?  In  those  days  when  they  raced  through  the 
Catechism  together,  did  he  never  provoke  her  mocking 
smiles  by  his  sneers  at  the  ponderous  language  ?  Did 
he  not  tempt  her  to  some  mischievous  sally  of  mirth,  on 
many  a  day  when  they  were  kneeling  in  couple  about 
the  family  altar? 

And  in  the  flush  of  his  exalted  feeling  he  writes  her 
how  bitterly  he  deplores  all  this,  and  borrowing  his  lan 
guage  from  the  sermons  he  now  listens  to  with  greed, 
he  urges  Adele  "  to  plant  her  feet  upon  the  Rock  of 
Ages." 

Indeed,  there  is  a  fervor  in  his  feeling  which  pushes 
him  into  such  extravagances  of  expression  as  the  Doc 
tor  would  have  found  it  necessary  to  qualify,  if  Adele, 
poor  child,  had  not  been  by  far  too  weak  for  their  com 
prehension. 

The  Brindlocks  were,  of  course,  utterly  amazed  at  this 
new  aspect  in  the  character  of  their  young  protege. 


238  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Mr.  Brindlock  said,  however,  consolingly  to  his  wife, 
"  My  dear,  it 's  atmospheric,  I  think.  It 's  a  '  revival ' 
season  ;  there  was  such  a  one,  I  remember,  in  my  young 
days. " 

(Mrs.  Brindlock  laughed  at  this  quite  merrily.) 

"To  be  sure  there  was,  my  dear,  and  I  was  really 
quite  deeply  affected.  Reuben  will  come  out  all  right ; 
we  shall  see  him  settling  down  soon  to  good  merchant 
habits  again." 

But  the  animus  of  the  new  tendency  was  far  stronger 
than  Brindlock  had  supposed  ;  and  within  a  month  Reu- 
ben  had  come  to  a  quiet  rupture  with  his  city  patron. 
The  smack  of  worldliness  was  too  strong  for  him.  He 
felt  that  he  must  go  back  to  his  old  home,  and  place 
himself  again  under  the  instructions  of  the  father  whose 
counsels  he  had  once  spurned. 

"  You  don't  say  you  mean  to  become  a  parson?  "  said 
Mr.  Brindlock,  more  than  ever  astounded. 

"  It  is  very  likely,"  said  Reuben. 

"  Well,  Reuben,  if  you  must,  you  must.  But  I  don't 
see  things  in  that  light.  However,  my  boy,  we  '11  keep 
our  little  private  ventures  astir ;  you  may  need  them 
some  day." 

And  so  they  parted. 

Reuben  had  thought  in  his  wild  days,  that,  when  he 
should  go  back  to  Ashfield  for  any  lengthened  stay,  (for 
thus  far  his  visits  had  been  few  and  flying  ones,)  he 
should  considerably  astonish  the  old  people  there  by  his 
air  and  city  cultivation.  It  is  quite  possible  that  he  had 
laid  by  certain  naming  cravats  which  he  thought  would 


REUBEN  MAKES  A   PROSELYTE.          239 

have  a  killing  effect  in  the  country  church,  and  antici 
pated  a  very  handsome  triumph  by  the  easy  swagger 
with  which  he  would  greet  old  Deacon  Tourtelot  and 
ask  after  the  health  of  Miss  Ahnira.  But  the  hope  of  all 
such  triumphs  was  now  dropped  utterly.  Such  things 
clearly  belonged  to  the  lusts  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of 
life.  He  even  left  behind  him.  some  of  the  most  flashy 
articles  of  his  attire,  with  the  request  to  Aunt  Mabel  that 
she  would  bestow  them  upon  some  needy  person,  or,  in 
default  of  this,  make  them  over  to  the  Missionary  Society 
for  distribution  among  the  heathen,  —  a  purpose  for 
which  some  of  them,  by  reason  of  their  brilliant  colors, 
were  certainly  most  admirably  adapted. 

All  in  Ashfield  meet  him  kindly.  Old  Squire  Elder- 
kin,  who  chances  to  be  the  first  to  greet  him  as  he 
alights  from  the  coach,  shakes  him  warmly  by  the  hand, 
and  taps  him  patronizingly  upon  the  shoulder. 

"Welcome  home  again,  Reuben!  Well,  well,  they 
thought  you  were  given  over  to  bad  courses ;  but  it 's 
all  right  now,  I  hear  ;  quite  upon  the  other  tack,  eh, 
Keuben  ?  " 

And  Reuben  thanked  him,  thinking  perhaps  how  odd 
it  was  that  this  worldly  old  gentleman,  of  whom  he  had 
thought,  since  his  late  revulsion  of  feeling,  with  a  good 
deal  of  quiet  pity,  should  commend  what  was  so  foreign 
to  his  own  habit.  There  were,  then,  some  streaks  of 
good-natured  worldliness  which  tallied  with  Christian 
duty.  The  serene,  kindly  look  of  Mrs.  Elderkin  was 
in  itself  the  tenderest  welcome  ;  and  it  was  an  ennobling 
thought  to  Reuben,  that  he  had  at  last  placed  himself 


240  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

(or  fancied  he  had)  upon  the  same  moral  plane  "with  that 
good  woman.  As  for  Rose,  the  joyous,  frolicsome, 
charming  Rose,  whom  he  had  thought  at  one  time  to 
electrify  by  his  elegant  city  accomplishments,  —  was  not 
even  the  graceful  Rose  a  veteran  in  the  Christian  army 
in  which  he  had  but  now  enlisted  ?  Why,  then,  should 
she  show  timidity  and  shyness  at  this  meeting  with  him  ? 
Yet  her  little  fingers  had  a  quick  tremor  in  them  as  she 
took  his  hand,  and  a  swift  change  of  color  (he  knew  it  of 
old)  ran  over  her  face  like  a  rosy  cloud. 

"  It  is  delightful  to  think  that  Reuben  is  safe  at  last," 
said  Mrs.  Elderkin,  after  he  had  gone. 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Rose. 

"  It  must  be  a  great  delight  to  them  all  at  the  par 
sonage." 

"I  suppose  so,  mamma  ;  and  yet  it's  so  very  sudden. 
I  wish  Phil  were  here,"  said  Rose  again,  in  a  plaintive 
little  tone. 

"  I  wish  he  were,  my  child  ;  it  might  have  a  good 
influence  upon  him  ;  and  poor  Adele  too ;  she  must 
surely  listen  to  Reuben,  he  is  so  earnest  and  impas 
sioned." 

Rose  is  working  with  nervous  rapidity. 

"But,  my  child,"  says  the  mother,  "  are  you  not  sew 
ing  that  breadth  upon  the  wrong  side  ?  " 

True  enough,  upon  the  wrong  side,  —  so  many  weary 
stitches  to  undo  ! 

Miss  Eliza  had  shown  a  well-considered  approval  of 
Reuben's  change  of  opinions  ;  but  this  had  not  forbidden 
a  certain  reserve  of  worldly  regret  that  he  should  give 


REUBEN  MAKES  A   PROSELYTE.  241 

up  so  promising  a  business  career.  She  had  half  hinted 
as  much  to  the  Doctor. 

"I  do  not  see,  brother,"  she  had  said,  "that  his  piety 
will  involve  the  abandonment  of  mercantile  life." 

"His  piety,"  said  the  Doctor,  "if  it  be  of  the  right 
stamp,  will  involve  an  obedience  to  conscience." 

And  there  the  discussion  had  rested.  The  spinster 
received  Reuben  with  much  warmth,  in  which  her  state 
ly  proprieties  of  manner,  however,  were  never  for  one 
moment  forgotten. 

Adele,  who  was  now  fortunately  in  a  fail*  way  of  re 
covery,  but  who  was  still  very  weak,  and  who  looked 
charmingly  in  her  white  chamber-dress,  received  him 
with  a  tender-heartedness  of  manner  which  he  had  never 
met  in  her  before. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  been  hovering  (how  nearly 
she  did  not  know)  upon  the  confines  of  the  other  world  ; 
but  with  a  vague  sense  that  its  mysteries  might  open 
upon  her  in  any  hour,  she  had,  in  her  sane  intervals, 
ranked  together  the  promises  and  penalties  that  had 
been  set  before  her  by  the  good  Doctor  ;  now  worrying 
her  spirit,  as  it  confronted  some  awful  catechismal  dogma 
that  it  sought  vainly  to  solve ;  and  then,  from  sheer 
weakness  and  disappointment,  seizing  upon  the  symbol 
of  the  cross,  (of  which  the  effigy  was  always  near  at 
hand,)  and  by  a  kiss  and  a  tear  seeking  to  allay  her 
fainting  heart  with  the  mystic  company  of  the  elect  who 
would  find  admission  to  the  joys  of  paradise.  But  the 
dogmas  were  vain,  because  she  could  not  grapple  them 
to  her  heart ;  the  cross  was  vain,  because  it  was  an  empty 
16 


242  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

symbol ;  the  kisses  and  the  tears  left  her  groping  blind 
ly  for  the  key  that  would  surely  unlock  for  her  the 
wealth  of  the  celestial  kingdom.  In  this  attitude  of 
mind,  wearied  by  struggle  and  by  fantasies,  came  to  her 
the  letter  of  Reuben,  —  the  joyous  outburst  of  a  pioneer 
who  had  found  the  way. 

She  had  listened,  in  those  fatiguing  and  terrible  days 
of  illness,  to  psalms  long  drawn  out,  and  wearily ;  but 
here  was  some  wild  bird  that  chanted  a  glorious  carol  in 
her  ear,  —  a  carol  that  seemed  touched  with  heaven's 
own  joy.  And  under  its  influence  —  exaggerated  as  it 
was  by  extreme  youthful  emotion  —  she  seemed  to  see 
the  celestial  gates  of  jasper  and  pearl  swing  open  before 
her,  and  the  beckonings  of  the  great  crowd  of  celestial 
inhabitants  to  enter  and  enjoy. 

"I thank  you  very  much  for  your  letter,  Reuben," 
said  Adele,  and  she  looked  eagerly  into  his  face  for 
traces  of  that  triumph  which  so  glittered  throughout  his 
letter. 

And  she  did  not  look  in  vain  ;  for,  whether  it  were 
from  the  warm,  electric  touch  of  those  white,  thin  fin 
gers  of  hers,  or  the  eager  welcome  in  her  eyes,  or  from 
more  sacred  cause,  a  great  joy  shone  in  his  face,  —  a  joy 
that  from  thenceforward  they  began  to  share  in  common. 
Not  a  doubt,  not  a  penalty,  not  a  mystic,  blind  utter 
ance  of  the  Catechism,  but  the  glowing  enthusiasm  of 
Reuben  invested  it  with  cheery  promise,  or  covered  it 
with  the  wonderful  glamour  of  his  hope.  Between  these 
two  young  hearts  —  the  one,  till  then,  all  doubt  and 
weariness,  and  the  other,  just  now,  all  impassioned  ex- 


DEATH.  243 

uberance  —  there  came  a  grafting,  by  virtue  of  which 
the  religious  sentiment  in  Adele  shot  away  from  all  the 
severities  around  her  into  an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  joy. 

The  Doctor  saw  it,  and  wondered  at  the  abounding 
mercies  of  God.  The  spinster  saw  it,  and  rejoiced  at 
the  welding  of  this  new  link  in  the  chain  of  her  pur 
poses.  The  village  people  all  saw  it,  and  said  among 
themselves,  "If  he  has  won  her  from  the  iniquities  of 
the  world,  he  can  win  her  for  a  wife,  if  he  will." 

And  the  echoes  of  such  speeches  come,  as  they  needs 
must,  to  the  ear  of  Rose,  without  surprising  her,  so 
much  do  they  seem  the  echo  of  her  own  thought ;  and 
if  her  heart  may  droop  a  little  under  it,  she  conceals  it 
bravely,  and  abates  no  jot  in  her  abounding  love  for 
Adele. 

"  I  wish  Phil  were  here,"  she  says  in  the  privacy  of 
her  home. 

"  So  do  I,  darling,"  says  the  mother,  and  looks  at  her 
with  a  tender  inquisitiveness  that  makes  the  sweet  girl 
flinch,  and  affect  for  a  moment  a  noisy  gayety,  which  is 
not  in  her  heart. 


XL. 

Death. 

MADAME  ARLES  did  not  forego  either  her  soli 
citude  or  the  persistence   of  her  inquiry  under 
the  harsh  rebuffs  of  the  spinster.     The  village  physician, 
too,  had  been  addressed  by  this  anxious  lady  with  a  tu- 


244  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

mult  of  questionings  ;  and  the  old  gentleman  —  upon 
whose  sympathies  the  eager  inquirer  had  won  an  easy  ap 
proach  —  had  taken  hearty  satisfaction  in  assuring  her, 
that  the  poor  girl  was  mending,  was  out  of  danger,  in  fact, 
and  would  be  presently  in  a  condition  to  report  for  herself. 

After  this,  and  through  the  long  convalescence,  Ma 
dame  Aries  was  seen  more  rarely  upon  the  village  street. 
Yet  the  town  gossips  were  busy  with  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  "  foreign  lady."  Her  devotion  to  the  little 
child  of  the  outcast  was  searchingly  discussed  at  all  the 
tea-tables  of  the  place;  and  it  was  special  object  of 
scandal  that,  neglectful  of  the  Sabbath  ministrations, 
she  was  frequently  wandering  about  the  fields  in  "  meet 
ing-time,"  attended  by  that  poor  wee  thing  of  a  child, 
upon  whose  head  the  good  people  all  visited  the  sins  of 
the  parents.  Dame  Tourtelot  enjoyed  a  good  sharp 
fling  at  the  "  trollop." 

"  I  allers  said  she  was  a  bad  woman,"  submitted  the 
stout  Dame  ;  and  her  audience  (consisting  of  the  Dea 
con  and  Miss  Almira)  would  have  had  no  more  thought 
of  questioning  the  implied  decision  than  of  cutting 
down  the  meeting-house  steeple. 

"  And  I  'm  afeard,"  continued  the  Dame,  "  that 
Adeel  is  n't  much  better ;  she  keeps  a  crucifix  in  her 
chamber  !  —  need  n't  to  look  at  me,  Tourtelot !  —  Miss 
Johns  told  me  all  about  it,  and  I  don't  think  the  parson 
should  allow  it.  I  think  you  oughter  speak  to  the  par 
son,  Tourtelot." 

The  good  Deacon  scratched  his  head,  over  the  left 
ear,  in  a  deprecating  manner. 


DEA  TH.  245 

"And  I  've  heercl  this  Miss  Aries  has  been  receiviri 
fui-ren  letters,  —  need  n't  to  look  at  me,  Tourtelot !  — ^ 
the  postmaster  told  me  ;  —  and  they  're  filled  with  Pop. 
ery,  I  ha'n't  a  doubt." 

In  short,  the  poor  woman  bore  a  sad  reputation  ;  and 
Doctor  Johns,  good  as  he  was,  took  a  little  secret  pride 
in  such  startling  confirmation  of  his  theories  in  respect 
to  French  character.  He  wrote  to  his  friend  Maverick, 
informing  him  that  his  suspicions  in  regard  to  Madame 
Aries  were,  he  feared,  "  only  too  well  founded.'' 

Indeed,  Miss  Eliza  and  the  Doctor  (the  latter  from 
the  best  of  motives)  had  scrupulously  kept  from  AdMe 
all  knowledge  of  Madame  Aries's  impatient  solicitude 
during  her  illness. 

When,  therefore,  Adele,  on  one  of  her  early  walks 
with  Reuben,  after  her  recovery  was  fully  established, 
encountered,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  village,  Madame 
Aries,  trailing  after  her  the  little  child  of  shame,  —  and 
yet  darting  toward  the  French  girl,  at  first  sight,  with 
her  old  effusion,  —  Adele  met  her  coolly  ;  so  coolly,  in 
deed,  that  the  poor  woman  was  overcome,  and  hurrying 
the  little  child  after  her,  disappeared  with  a  look  of 
wretchedness  upon  her  face  that  haunted  Adele  for 
weeks  and  months.  A  moment  of  chilling  indifference 
on  the  part  of  Adele  had  worked  stronger  repulse  than 
all  the  harsh  rebuffs  of  the  elder  people  ;  but  of  this  the 
kind-hearted  French  girl  was  no  way  conscious  ;  yet  she 
icas  painfully  conscious  of  a  shadowy  figure  that  still, 
from  time  to  time,  stole  after  her  in  her  twilight  walks, 
and  that,  if  she  turned  upon  it,  shrank  stealthily  from 


246  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

observation.  There  was  a  mystery  about  the  whole 
matter  which  oppressed  the  poor  girl  with  a  sense  of 
terror. 

Rumor,  one  day,  brought  the  story,  that  the  foreign 
woman  who  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much  village 
scandal,  lay  ill,  and  was  fast  failing ;  and  on  hearing 
this,  Adele  would  have  broken  away  from  all  the  par 
sonage  restraints,  to  offer  what  consolations  she  could  ; 
nor  would  the  good  Doctor  have  repelled  her ;  but  the 
rumor,  if  not  false,  was,  in  his  view,  grossly  exagger 
ated  ;  since,  on  the  Sunday  previous  only,  some  offi 
cious  member  of  his  parish  had  reported  the  French 
woman  as  strolling  over  the  hills,  decoying  with  her 
that  little  child  of  her  fellow-lodger,  which  she  had 
tricked  out  in  the  remnants  of  her  French  finery,  and 
was  thus  wantoning  throughout  the  holy  hours  of  service. 

A  few  days  later,  however,  the  Doctor  came  in  with 
a  serious  and  perplexed  air  ;  he  laid  his  cane  and  hat 
upon  the  little  table  within  the  door,  and  summoned 
Adele  to  the  study. 

"Adaly,  my  child,"  said  he,  "this  unfortunate  coun 
trywoman  of  yours  is  really  failing.  I  learn  as  much 
from  the  physician.  She  has  asked  to  see  you.  She 
intimates  that  she  has  an  important  message  to  give 
you." 

A  strange  tremor  ran  over  the  frame  of  Adele. 

"  I  fear,  my  child,  that  she  is  still  bound  to  her  idol 
atries;  she  has  asked  that  you  bring  to  her  the  little 
bauble  of  a  rosary,  which,  I  trust,  Adaly,  you  have 
learned  to  regard  as  a  vanity." 


DEATH.  247 

"  Yet  I  have  it  still,  New  Papa  ;  she  shall  have  it ; " 
and  she  turned  to  go. 

"  My  child,  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  go  as  the 
messenger  of  a  false  faith,  and  to  carry  to  her,  as  it 
were,  the  seal  of  her  idolatries.  You  shall  follow  her 
wishes,  Adaly  ;  but  I  must  attend  you,  my  child,  were  it 
only  to  protest  against  such  vanities,  and  to  declare  to 
her,  if  it  be  not  too  late,  the  truth  as  it  is  in  the  Gos 
pel." 

Adele  was  only  too  willing ;  for  she  was  impressed 
with  a  vague  terror  at  thought  of  this  interview,  and  of 
its  possible  revelations  ;  and  they  set  off  presently  in 
company.  It  was  a  chilly  day  of  later  autumn.  Only  a 
few  scattered,  tawny  remnants  of  the  summer  verdure 
were  hanging  upon  the  village  trees,  and  great  rows  of  the 
dead  and  fallen  leaves  were  heaped  here  and  there 
athwart  the  path,  where  some  high  wall  kept  them  clear 
of  the  winds  ;  and  as  the  walkers  tramped  through  them, 
they  made  a  ghostly  rustle,  and  whole  platoons  of  them 
were  set  astir  to  drift  again  until  some  new  eddy  caught 
and  stranded  them  in  other  heaps.  Adele,  more  and 
more  disturbed  in  mind,  said,  — 

"  It 's  such  a  dreary  day,  New  Papa  !  " 

"Is  it  the  thought  that  one  you  know  may  lie  dying 
now  makes  it  dreary,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Partly  that,  I  dare  say,"  returned  Adele  ;  "  and  then 
the  wind  so  tosses  about  these  dead  leaves.  I  wish  it 
were  spring." 

"There  is  a  country/'  said  the  parson,  "where  spring 
reigns  eternal.  I  hope  you  may  find  it,  Adaly ;  I  hope 


248  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

your  poor  countrywoman  may  find  it ;  but  I  fear,  I 
fear." 

"Is  it,  then,  so  dreadful  to  be  a  Romanist?" 

"It  is  dreadful,  Adaly,  to  doubt  the  free  grace  of 
God,  —  dreadful  to  trust  in  any  offices  of  men,  or  in 
tithes  of  mint  and  anise  and  cumin.  I  have  a  conviction, 
my  child,"  continued  he,  in  a  tone  even  more  serious, 
"  that  the  poor  woman  has  not  lived  a  pure  life  before 
God,  or  even  before  the  world." 

Adele,  trembling,  —  partly  with  the  chilling  wind,  and 
partly  with  an  ill-defined  terror  of  —  she  knew  not  what, 
—  nestled  more  closely  to  the  side  of  the  old  gentleman ; 
and  he,  taking  her  little  hand  in  his,  as  tenderly  as  a 
lover  might  have  done,  said,  — 

"  Adaly,  at  least  your  trust  in  God  is  firm,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"It  is!  it  is  !  "  said  she. 

The  house,  as  we  have  said,  lay  far  out  upon  the  river- 
road,  within  a  strip  of  ill-tended  garden-ground,  sur 
rounded  by  a  rocky  pasture.  A  solitary  white-oak  stood 
in  the  line  of  straggling  wall  that  separated  garden  from 
pasture,  and  showed  still  a  great  crown  of  leaves 
blanched  by  the  frosts,  and  shivering  in  the  wind.  An 
artemisia,  with  blackened  stalks,  nodded  its  draggled 
yellow  blossoms  at  one  angle  of  the  house,  while  a  little 
company  of  barn-door  fowls  stood  closely  grouped  under 
the  southern  lea,  with  heads  close  drawn  upon  their 
breasts,  idling  and  winking  in  the  sunshine. 

The  young  mother  of  the  vagrant  one  who  had  at 
tracted  latterly  so  much  of  the  solitary  woman's  regard 
received  them  with  an  awkward  welcome. 


DEA  TH.  249 

"  Miss  Aries  is  poorly  to-day,"  she  said,  "and  she  's 
flighty.  She  keeps  Arthur  "  (the  child)  "  with  her.  You 
hear  how  she 's  a-chatteriu'  now."  (The  door  of  her 
chamber  stood  half  open.)  "  Arty  seems  to  understand 
her.  I  'in  sure  I  don't." 

Nor,  indeed,  did  the  Doctor,  to  whose  ear  a  torrent  of 
rapid  French  speech  was  like  the  gibberish  of  demons. 
Not  so  Adele.  There  were  sweet  sounds  to  her  ear  in 
that  swift  flow  of  Provencal  speech,  —  tender,  endeaiing 
epithets,  that  seemed  like  the  echo  of  music  heard  long  ago. 

"Ah,  you're  a  gay  one!  Now  —  put  on  your  velvet 
cap  —  so.  We  '11  find  a  bride  for  you  some  day,  —  some 
day,  when  you  're  a  tall,  proud  man.  Who  's  your  father, 
Arty  ?  Pah  !  it 's  nothing.  You  '11  make  somebody's 
heart  ache  all  the  same,  —  eh,  Arty,  boy  ?  " 

"Do  you  understand  her,  Miss  Maverick?"  says  the 
mother. 

"Not  wholly,"  said  Adele;  and  the  two  visitors 
stepped  in  noiselessly. 

The  child,  bedizened  with  finery,  was  standing  upon 
the  bed  where  the  sick  woman  lay,  with  a  long  feather 
from  the  cock's  tail  waving  from  his  cap.  Madame 
Aries,  with  the  hot  flush  of  the  fever  upon  her,  looked 
—  saving  the  thinness  —  as  she  might  have  looked 
twenty  years  before.  And  as  her  flashing  eye  caught 
the  new  comers,  her  voice  broke  out  wildly  again,  — 

"  Here 's  the  bride,  and  here 's  the  priest !  Where 's 
the  groom  ?  Where  's  the  groom,  I  say  ?  " 

The  violence  of  her  manner  made  poor  Adele  shiver. 

The  boy  laughed  as  he  saw  it,  and  said,  — 


250  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  She  's  afraid  !     /  'm  not  afraid." 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  the  crazed  woman,  turning  on  him. 
"  You  're  a  man,  Arty  ;  men  are  not  afraid,  — you  wan 
ton,  you  wild  one  !  Where  's  the  groom  ?  "  said  she 
again,  addressing  the  Doctor,  fiercely. 

"My  good  woman,"  says  the  old  gentleman,  "  we  have 
come  to  offer  you  the  consolations  that  are  only  to  be 
found  in  the  Gospel  of  Christ." 

"  Pah  !  you  're  a  false  priest ! "  —  defiantly.  "  Where  's 
the  groom  ?  " 

And  Adele,  hoping  to  pacify  the  poor  woman,  draws 
from  her  reticule  the  little  rosary,  and  holding  it  before 
the  eyes  of  the  sufferer,  says,  timidly,  — 

"  My  dear  Madam,  it  is  I,  —  Adele  ;  I  have  brought 
what  you  asked  of  me  ;  I  have  come  to  comfort  you." 

And  the  woman,  over  whose  face  there  ran  instantly 
a  marvelous  change,  snatched  the  rosary,  and  pressed  it 
convulsively  to  her  lips  ;  then,  looking  for  a  moment 
yearningly,  with  that  strange  double  gaze  of  hers,  upon 
the  face  of  Adele,  she  sprang  toward  her,  and,  wreath 
ing  her  arms  about  her,  drew  her  fast  upon  her  bosom,  — 

"  Mafille  !  ma  pauvre  file  !  " 

The  boy  slipped  down  from  the  bed,  —  his  little  im 
portance  being  over, —  and  was  gone.  The  Doctor's  lips 
moved  in  silent  prayer  for  five  minutes  or  more,  wholly 
undisturbed,  while  the  twain  were  locked  in  that  em 
brace.  Then  the  old  gentleman,  stooping,  said, — 

"  Adaly,  will  she  listen  to  me  now  ?  " 

And  Adele,  turning  a  frightened  face  to  him,  whis 
pered,  — 


REUBEN'S  STRUGGLE.  251 

"  She  's  sleeping  ;  uuclasp  her  hands  ;  she  holds  me 
tightly." 

The  Doctor,  with  tremulous  fingers,  does  her  bidding. 

Adele,  still  whispering,  says,  — 

"  She  's  calm  now,  she  '11  talk  with  us  when  she  wakes, 
New  Papa." 

"My  poor  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  solemnly,  and  with 
a  full  voice,  "  she  '11  never  wake  again." 

And  Adele  turning,  —  in  a  maze  of  terror,  as  she 
thought  of  that  death-clasp,  —  saw  that  her  eyes  had 
fallen  open,  —  open,  and  fixed,  and  lusterless.  So 
quietly  Death  had  come  upon  his  errand,  and  accom 
plished  it,  and  gone  ;  while  without,  the  fowls,  undis 
turbed,  were  still  blinking  idly  in  the  sunshine  under 
the  lea  of  the  wall,  and  the  yellow  chrysanthemums  were 
fluttering  in  the  wind. 

XLL 

Reuberfs    Struggle. 

TN  the  winter  of  1838-39,  Adele,  much  to  the  delight 
-*-  of  Dr.  Johns,  avowed  at  last  her  wish  to  join  her 
self  to  the  little  church-flock  over  which  the  good  par 
son  still  held  serenely  his  office  of  shepherd.  And  as 
she  told  him  quietly  of  her  desire,  sitting  before  him 
there  in  the  study  of  the  parsonage,  without  urgence 
upon  his  part,  it  was  as  if  a  bright  gleam  of  sunshine 
had  darted  suddenly  through  the  wintry  clouds,  and 
bathed  both  of  them  in  its  warm  effulgence.  The  good 


252  'DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

man,  rising  from  his  chair  and  crossing  over  to  her 
place,  touched  her  forehead  with  as  tender  and  loving  a 
kiss  as  ever  he  had  bestowed  upon  the  lost  Rachel. 

He  had  seen  too  closely  the  development  of  her  Chris 
tian  faith  to  disturb  her  with  various  questionings.  She 
rejoiced  in  this  ;  for  even  then,  with  all  the  calm  serenity 
of  her  trust,  it  was  doubtful  if  her  answers  could  have 
fully  satisfied  the  austerities  of  his  theological  traditions. 
Even  the  little  rosary,  so  obnoxious  to  the  household 
of  the  parsonage,  was,  by  its  terrible  association  with 
the  death-scene  of  Madame  Aries,  endeared  to  her  ten 
fold  ;  and  she  could  not  forbear  the  hope  that  the  poor 
wroman,  at  the  very  last,  by  that  clinging  kiss  upon  the 
image  of  Christ,  told  a  prayer  that  might  give  access  to 
His  abounding  mercy. 

Meantime  Reuben  has  a  vague  notion  creeping  over 
him,  with  fearfully  chilling  effect,  that  his  sensibilities 
have  been  wrought  upon  rather  than  his  reason  ;  a  con 
fused  sense  of  having  yielded  to  enthusiasms  which,  if 
they  once  grow  cool,  will  leave  him  to  slump  back  into 
a  mire  worse  than  the  old.  He  looked  with  something- 
like  envy  upon  the  serene  contentment  of  Adele.  He 
lived  like  an  ascetic  ;  he  sought,  by  reading  of  all  man 
ner  of  exultant  religious  experience,  to  keep  alive  the 
ferment  of  the  autumn.  "  If  only  death  were  near,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  with  what  a  blaze  of  hope  one  might 
go  out !  "  But  death  was  not  near,  —  or,  at  least,  life 
and  its  perplexing  duties  were  nearer.  If  the  glory  of 
the  promises  and  the  tenderness  of  Divine  entreaty  were 
to  be  always  dropping  mellifluously  on  his  ear,  as  upon 


REUBEN'S  STRUGGLE.  253 

that  solemn  Sunday  of  the  summer,  it  might  be  well. 
But  it  is  not  thus ;  and  even  were  the  severe  quiet  of 
the  Ashfield  Sundays  lighted  up  by  the  swift  and  burn 
ing  words  of  such  fiery  evangelism,  yet  six  solid  working- 
days  roll  over  upon  the  heel  of  every  Sunday,  —  in  which 
he  sees  good  Deacon  Tourtelot  in  shirt-sleeves  driving 
some  sharp  bargain  for  his  two-year-old  steers,  or  the 
stout  Dame  hectoring  some  stray  peddler  by  the  hour 
for  the  fall  of  a  penny  upon  his  wares,  and  wonders 
where  their  Christian  largeness  of  soul  is  gone.  Shall  he 
consult  the  good  Doctor  ?  He  is  met  straightway  with 
an  array  of  the  old  catechisinal  formulas,  clearly  stated, 
well  argued,  but  brushing  athwart  his  mind  like  a  dusty 
wind.  In  this  strait,  he  wanders  over  the  hills  in  search 
of  loneliness,  and  a  volume  of  Tillotson  he  carries  with 
him  is  all  unread.  Nature  speaks  more  winningly,  but 
scarce  more  helpfully. 

Adele,  with  a  quick  eye,  sees  the  growing  unrest,  and 
with  a  great  weight  of  gratitude  upon  her  heart,  says, 
timidly,  — 

"  Can  I  help  you,  Reuben  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Adele.  I  understand  you  ;  I  'm  in  a 
boggle,  —  that  's  all." 

The  father,  too,  at  a  hint  from  Adele,  (whose  percep 
tions  are  so  much  quicker,)  sees  at  last  how  the  matter 
stands. 

"  Reuben,"  he  says,  "  these  struggles  of  yours  are 
struggles  with  the  Great  Adversary.'' 

It  was  kindly  said  and  earnestly  said,  but  touched  the 
core  of  the  son's  moral  disquietude  no  more  than  if  it 


254  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

were  the  hooting  of  an  owl.  It  pains  him  grievously  to 
think  what  humiliation  would  possess  the  old  Doctor,  if 
he  but  knew  into  what  crazy  currents  his  boy's  thoughts 
were  drifting  over  the  pages  of  his  beloved  teachers. 

But  a  man  cannot  live  a  deceit,  even  for  charity's  sake, 
without  its  making  outburst  some  day,  and  wrecking  all 
the  fine  preventive  barriers  which  kept  it  in.  The  out 
burst  came  at  last  in  the  quiet  of  the  Ashfield  study. 
Reuben  had  been  poring  for  hours  —  how  wearily  !  how 
vainly  !  —  over  the  turgid  dogmas  of  one  of  the  elder  di 
vines,  when  he  suddenly  dashed  the  book  upon  the  floor. 

"  Confound  the  theologies !  I  '11  have  no  more  of 
them ! " 

The  Doctor  dropped  his  pen,  and  stared  as  if  a  ser 
pent  had  stung  him. 

"  My  son  !  Reuben  !  Reuben !  " 

"I  can't  help  it,  father.  It's  the  Evil  One,  per 
haps.  If  it  be,  1 11  cheat  him,  by  making  a  clean  breast 
of  it.  I  can't  abide  the  stuff;  I  can't  see  my  way 
through  it." 

"  My  son,  it  is  your  sin  that  blinds  you." 

"Very  likely,"  says  Reuben. 

"It  was  not  thus  with  you  three  months  ago,  Reuben," 
continues  the  Doctor,  in  a  softened  tone. 

"  No,  father,  there  was  a  strange  light  around  me  in 
those  days.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  path  lay  clear 
and  shining  through  all  the  maze.  If  Death  had  caught 
me  then,  I  think  I  could  have  sung  hosannas  with  the 
saints.  It 's  faded  dismally,  father,  —  as  if  the  Devil  had 
painted  it." 


REUBEN'S  STRUGGLE.  255 

The  old  man  shuddered. 

"  The  muddle  of  the  world  and  the  theologies  has  come 
in  since,"  continued  Reuben,  "  and  the  base  professions  I 
see  around  me,  and  the  hypocrisies  and  the  cant,  have 
taken  away  the  glow.  It 's  all  a  weariness  and  a  confusion, 
and  that 's  the  solemn  truth." 

The  Doctor  said,  measuredly,  (as  if  the  Book  were  be 
fore  him,)  — 

"  '  Some  seeds  fell  upon  stony  places,  where  they  had 
not  much  earth ;  and  forthwith  they  sprung  up,  because 
they  had  no  deepness  of  earth.  And  ivhen  the  sun  icas  up, 
they  were  scorched ;  and  because  they  had  no  root,  they 
withered  away.'  Reuben  !  Reuben  !  we  must  agonize  to 
enter  into  the  strait  gate  !  " 

"It's  a  long  agony,"  said  Reuben  ;  and  he  rose  and 
paced  back  and  forth  for  a  time  ;  then  suddenly  stopping 
before  the  Doctor,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
(the  boy  was  of  manly  height  now,  and  overtopped  the 
old  gentleman  by  an  inch,)  —  ';  Father,  it  grieves  me  to 
pain  you,  —  indeed  it  does  ;  but  truth  is  truth.  I  have 
told  you  my  story ;  but  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  live  out 
wardly  as  if  no  such  talk  had  passed." 

"  I  would  not  have  you  practise  hypocrisy,  my  son  ; 
but  I  would  not  have  you  withdraw  yourself  from  any  of 
the  appointed  means  of  grace." 

And  at  this  Reuben  went  out,  —  out  far  upon  the  hills, 
from  which  he  saw  the  village  roofs,  and  the  spire,  and 
the  naked  tree-tops,  the  fields  all  bare  and  brown,  the 
smoke  of  a  near  house  curling  lazily  into  the  sky  ;  and 
the  only  sound  that  broke  the  solemn  stillness  was  the 


256  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

drumming  of  a  partridge  in  the  woods  or  the  harsh 
scream  of  a  belated  jay. 

Never  had  Reuben  been  more  kind  or  attentive  to  the 
personal  wants  of  the  old  gentleman  than  on  the  days 
which  followed  upon  this  interview.  There  was  some 
thing  almost  like  a  daughter's  solicitude  in  his  watchful 
ness.  On  the  next  Sunday  the  Doctor  preached  with 
an  emotion  that  was  but  poorly  controlled,  and  which 
greatly  mystified  his  people.  Twice  in  the  afternoon 
his  voice  came  near  to  failing.  Reuben  knew  where 
the  grief  lay,  but  wore  a  composed  face ;  and  as  he 
supported  the  old  gentleman  home  after  service,  he  said, 
(but  not  so  loudly  that  Adele  could  hear,  who  was  trip 
ping  closely  behind,)  — 

"Father,  I  grieve  for  you,  —  upon  my  soul  I  do  ;  but 
it  Js  fate." 

"  Fate,  Reuben  ?  "  said  the  Doctor,  but  with  a  less 
guarded  voice,  —  "  fate  ?  God  only  is  fate  !  " 

The  Doctor  was  too  much  mortified  by  this  revelation 
of  Reuben's  present  state  of  feeling  to  make  it  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation,  even  with  Miss  Eliza,  and  much  less 
with  the  elders  of  his  flock.  To  Squire  Elderkin, 
indeed,  whose  shrewd  common  sense  he  had  learned  to 
value  even  in  its  bearings  upon  the  "weightier  matters 
of  the  law,"  he  had  dropped  some  desponding  reflections 
in  regard  to  the  wilful  impetuosity  of  his  poor  son  Reu 
ben,  from  which  the  shrewd  Squire  at  once  suspected 
the  difficulty. 

"It's  the  blood  of  the  old  Major,"  he  said.  "Let  it 
work,  Doctor,  let  it  work  !  " 


REUBEX'S  STRUGGLE.  257 

From  which  observation,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
good  man  derived  very  little  comfort. 

Miss  Eliza,  though  she  is  not  made  a  confidante  in 
these  latter  secrets  of  the  study,  cannot,  however,  fail  to 
see  that  Reuben's  constancy  to  the  Doctor's  big  folios  is 
on  the  wane,  and  that  symptoms  of  his  old  boyish  reck 
lessness  occasionally  show  themselves  under  the  reserve 
which  has  grown  out  of  his  later  experiences.  But  her 
moral  perceptions  are  not  delicate  enough  to  discover 
the  great  and  tormenting  wrangle  of  his  thought.  She 
ventures  from  time  to  time,  as  on  his  return,  and  from 
sharp  sense  of  duty,  some  wiry,  stereotyped  religious  re 
flections,  which  set  his  whole  moral  nature  on  edge. 
Nor  is  this  the  limit  of  her  blindness  :  perceiving,  as  she 
imagines  she  does,  the  ripening  of  all  her  plans  with  re 
spect  to  himself  and  Adele,  she  thinks  to  further  the 
matter  by  dropping  hints  of  the  rare  graces  of  Adele  and 
of  her  brilliant  prospects,  —  assuring  him  how  much 
that  young  lady's  regard  for  him  has  been  increased 
since  his  conversion,  (which  w^ord  has  to  Reuben  just 
now  a  dreary  and  most  detestable  sound,)  and  in  a  way 
which  she  counts  playful,  but  which  to  him  is  agacant  to 
the  last  degree,  she  forecasts  the  time  when  Reuben  will 
have  his  pretty  French  wife,  and  a  rich  one. 

Left  to  himself,  the  youth  would  very  likely  have 
found  enough  to  admire  in  the  face  and  figure  and 
pleasantly  subdued  enthusiasm  of  Adele  ;  but  the  coun 
ter-irritant  of  the  spinster's  speech  drove  him  away  on 
many  an  evening  to  the  charming  fireside  of  the  Elder- 
kins,  where  he  spent  not  a  few  beguiling  hours  in  listen- 
17 


UNIVERSITY 
OF  rI7, 


258  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ing  to  the  talk  of  the  motherly  mistress  of  the  house 
hold,  and  in  watching  the  soft  hazel  eyes  of  Rose,  as  they 
lifted  in  eager  wonderment  at  some  of  his  stories  of  the 
town,  or  fell  (the  long  lashes  hiding  them  with  other 
beauty)  upon  the  work  where  her  delicate  fingers  plied 
with  a  white  swiftness  that  teazed  him  into  trains  of 
thought  which  were  not  wholly  French. 

Adele  has  taken  a  melancholy  interest  in  decking  the 
grave  of  the  exiled  lady,  which  she  has  insisted  upon 
doing  out  of  her  own  resources,  and  thus  has  doubled 
the  little  legacy  which.  Madame  Aries  had  left  to  the  out 
cast  woman  and  child  with  whom  she  had  joined  her 
fate,  and  who,  with  good  reason,  wept  her  death  bitter 
ly.  Hour  upon  hour  Adele  pondered  over  that  tragic 
episode,  tasking  herself  to  imagine  what  message  the 
dying  woman  could  have  had  to  communicate,  and  won 
dering  if  the  future  would  ever  clear  up  the  mystery. 
With  all  the  stimulus  of  her  new  Christian  endeavor, 
Adele  sought  to  think  charitably  of  Miss  Eliza.  Yet  it 
was  hard  ;  always,  that  occasional  cold  kiss  of  the  spin 
ster  had  for  Adele  an  iron  imprint,  which  drove  her  warm 
blood  away,  instead  of  summoning  it  to  response. 

For  her,  Miss  Eliza's  staple  praises  of  Eeuben,  and 
her  adroit  stories  of  the  admiration  and  attachment  of 
Mrs.  Brindlock  for  her  nephew,  were  distasteful  to  the 
last  degree.  Coarse  natures  never  can  learn  upon  what 
fine  threads  the  souls  of  the  sensitive  are  strung. 

As  yet  there  was  a  ripe  fulness  in  her  heart  that  felt 
no  wound,  —  at  least  no  wound  in  which  her  hope 
rankled.  Whether  Eeuben  were  present  or  away,  her 


A  REVELATION.  259 

songs  rose,  with  a  sweeter,  a  serener,  and  a  loftier  cheer 
than  of  old  under  the  roof  of  the  parsonage  ;  and,  as  of 
old,  the  Doctor  laid  down  his  book  and  listened,  as  if  an 
angel  sang. 


XTJT. 

A  JRevda.tion. 

IN  the  summer  of  1840  the  Doctor  received  a  letter 
from  Maverick  which  overwhelmed  him  with  con 
sternation. 

"My  good  friend  Johns,"  he  wrote,  "I  owe  you  a 
debt  of  gratitude  which  I  can  never  repay  ;  you  have 
shown  such  fatherly  interest  in  my  deal-  child,  —  you 
have  so  guided  and  guarded  her,  —  you  have  so  abun 
dantly  filled  the  place  which,  though  it  was  nay  duty,  I 
had  never  the  worthiness  to  fill,  that  I  have  no  words  to 
thank  you. 

"  I  hear,  —  from  what  sources  it  will  be  unnecessary 
for  me  now  to  explain,  —  that  a  close  intimacy  has  grown 
up  latterly  between  your  son  Reuben  and  my  dear 
Adele,  and  that  this  intimacy  has  provoked  village 
rumors  of  the  possibility  of  some  nearer  tie.  These 
rumors  may  be,  perhaps,  wholly  untrue  ;  but  the  knowl 
edge  of  them,  vague  as  they  are,  has  stimulated  me  to 
a  task  which  I  ought  far  sooner  to  have  accomplished, 
and  which,  as  a  man  of  honor,  I  can  no  longer  defer. 

"  I  go  back  to  the  time  when  I  first  paid  you  a  visit 
at  your  parsonage.  I  never  shall  forget  the  cheery  joy- 


260  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ousness  of  that  little  family  scene  at  your  fireside,  the 
winning  modesty  and  womanliness  of  your  lost  Eachel, 
and  the  serenity  and  peace  that  lay  about  your  house 
hold.  It  was  to  me,  fresh  from  the  vices  of  Europe, 
like  some  charming  Christian  idyl,  in  whose  atmosphere 
I  felt  myself  not  only  an  alien,  but  a  profane  intruder ; 
for,  at  that  very  time,  I  was  bound  by  one  of  those  cri 
minal  liaisons  to  which  so  many  strangers  on  the  Con 
tinent  are  victims.  Your  household  and  your  conver 
sation  prompted  a  hope  and  a  struggle  for  better  things. 
But,  my  dear  Johns,  the  struggle  was  against  a  whole  at 
mosphere  of  vice.  And  it  was  only  when  I  had  broken 
free  of  entanglement,  that  I  learned,  with  a  dreary  pang, 
that  I  was  the  father  of  a  child,  —  my  poor,  dear  Adele  !  " 

The  Doctor  crumpled  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  smote 
upon  his  forehead.  Never,  in  his  whole  life,  had  he 
known  such  strange  revulsion  of  feeling.  With  re 
turning  calmness  he  smooths  the  letter  upon  his  desk, 
and  continues :  — 

"  I  expect  your  condemnation,  of  course  ;  yet  listen 
to  my  story  throughout.  That  child  I  might  have  left  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  the  world,  might  have  ignored  it, 
and  possibly  forgotten  its  existence.  Many  a  man,  with 
fewer  stains  on  his  conscience  than  I  have,  would  have 
done  this,  and  met  the  wrorld  and  old  friends  cheerily. 
But  then  the  memory  of  you  and  of  your  teachings 
somehow  kindled  in  me  what  I  counted  a  worthier 
purpose.  I  vowed  that  the  child  should,  if  possible, 
lead  a  guileless  life,  and  should  no  way  suffer,  so 
far  as  human  efforts  could  prevent,  for  the  sins  of  the 


A   REVELATION.  261 

parents.  The  mother  assented,  with  what  I  counted  a 
guilty  willingness,  to  my  design,  and  I  placed  her  se 
cretly  under  the  charge  of  the  old  godmother  of  whom 
Adele  must  often  have  spoken. 

"  But  I  was  no  way  content  that  she  should  grow  up 
under  French  influences,  and  to  the  future  knowledge 
(inevitable  in  these  scenes)  of  the  ignominy  of  her  birth. 
And  if  that  knowledge  were  ever  to  come,  I  could  think 
of  no  associations  more  fitted  to  make  her  character 
stanch  to  bear  it  than  those  that  belong  to  the  rigid  and 
self-denying  virtues  which  are  taught  in  a  New  England 
parish.  Is  it  strange  that  I  recurred  at  once  to  your 
kindness,  Johns?  Is  it  strange  that  I  threw  the  poor 
child  upon  your  charity  ? 

"It  is  true,  I  used  deceit,  —  true  that  I  did  not 
frankly  reveal  the  truth  ;  but  see  how  much  was  at 
stake !  I  knew  in  what  odium  such  trespasses  were 
held  in  the  serenity  of  your  little  towns  ;  I  knew  that, 
if  you,  with  Spartan  courage,  should  propose  accept 
ance  of  the  office,  your  family  would  reject  it.  I  knew 
that  your  love  of  truth  would  be  incapable  of  the  con 
cealments  or  subterfuges  which  might  be  needed  to  pro 
tect  the  poor  child  from  the  tongue  of  scandal.  In  short, 
I  was  not  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  a  repulse.  '  Such 
deceit  as  there  may  be,'  I  said,  '  is  my  own.  My  friend 
Johns  can  never  impute  it  as  a  sin  to  Adele.'  I  am  sure 
you  will  not  now.  Again,  I  felt  that  I  was  using  deceit 
(if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  it)  in  a  good  cause,  and  that 
you  yourself,  when  once  the  shock  of  discovery  should 
be  past,  could  never  reprimand  yourself  for  your  faithful 


262  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

teachings  to  an  erring  child,  but  must  count  her,  in  your 
secret  heart,  only  another  of  the  wandering  lambs 
which  it  was  your  duty  and  pleasure  to  lead  into  the 
true  fold.  Had  she  come  to  you  avowedly  as  the  child 
of  sin,  with  all  the  father's  and  mother's  guilt  reeking 
upon  her  innocent  head,  could  you  have  secured  to  her, 
my  dear  Johns,  that  care  and  consideration  and  devotion 
which  have  at  last  ripened  her  Christian  character,  and 
made  her  proof  against  slander  ?  " 

Here  the  Doctor  threw  down  the  letter  again,  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  The  child  of  sin  !  the  child  of  sin  !  "Who  could  have 
thought  it  ?  Yet  does  not  Maverick  reason  true  ?  Does 
not  Beelzebub  at  times  reason  true  ?  Adaly  !  my  poor, 
poor  Adaly ! " 

"It  seemed  to  me,"  the  letter  continued,  "  that  there 
might  possibly  be  no  need  that  either  you  or  my  poor 
child  should  ever  know  the  whole  truth  in  this  matter  ; 
and  I  pray  (with  your  leave)  that  it  may  be  kept  from 
her  even  now.  You  will  understand,  perhaps,  from  what 
I  have  said,  why  my  visits  have  been  more  rare  than  a 
fatherly  feeling  would  seem  to  demand  ;  to  tell  truth,  I 
have  feared  the  familiar  questionings  of  her  prattling 
girlhood.  Mature  years  shrink  from  perilous  inquiry,  I 
think,  with  an  instinct  which  does  not  belong  to  the 
freshness  of  youth. 

"But  from  your  ears,  in  view  of  the  rumors  that  have 
come  to  my  hearing,  I  could  not  keep  the  knowledge 
longer.  I  cannot,  my  dear  Johns,  read  your  heart,  and 
say  whether  or  not  you  will  revolt  at  the  idea  of  any  pos- 


A   REVELATION.  263 

Bible  family  tie  between  your  son  and  my  poor  Adele. 
But  whatever  aspect  such  possibility  may  present  to  your 
mind,  I  can  regard  it  only  with  aversion.  Whatever 
your  Christian  forgiveness  or  your  love  for  Adele  (and 
I  know  she  is  capable  of  winning  your  love)  may  suggest, 
I  can  never  consent  that  any  stain  should  be  carried 
upon  your  family  record  by  any  instrumentality  of  mine. 
I  must  beg,  therefore,  that,  if  the  rumor  be  true,  you 
use  all  practicable  means,  even  to  the  use  of  your 
parental  authority,  in  discountenancing  and  forbidding 
such  intimacy.  If  necessary  to  this  end,  and  Reuben  be 
still  resident  at  the  parsonage,  I  pray  you  to  place  Adele 
with  Mrs.  Brindlock,  or  other  proper  person,  until  such 
time  as  I  am  able  to  come  and  take  her  once  more  under 
my  own  protection. 

"If  you  were  a  more  worldly  man,  my  dear  Johns,  I 
should  hope  to  win  your  heartier  co-operation  in  my 
views  by  telling  you  that  recent  business  misfortunes 
have  placed  my  whole  estate  in  peril,  so  that  it  is  ex 
tremely  doubtful  if  Adele  will  have  any  ultimate  mon 
eyed  dependence  beyond  the  pittance  which  I  have 
placed  in  trust  for  her  in  your  hands.  Should  it  be  ne 
cessary,  in  furtherance  of  the  objects  I  have  named,  to 
make  communication  of  the  disclosures  in  this  letter  to 
your  son  or  to  Miss  Johns,  you  have  my  full  liberty 
to  do  so.  Farther  than  this,  I  trust  you  may  not  find 
it  necessary  to  make  known  the  facts  so  harmful  to  the 
prospects  and  peace  of  my  innocent  child. 

"  I  have  thus  made  a  clean  breast  to  you,  my  dear 
Johns,  and  await  your  condemnation.  But  let  not  any 


264  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

portion  of  it,  I  pray,  be  visited  upon  poor  Adele.  1 
know  with  what  wrathful  eyes  you,  from  your  New  Eng 
land  stand-point,  are  accustomed  to  look  upon  such 
shortcomings  ;  and  I  know,  too,  that  you  are  sometimes 
disposed  to  '  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  chil 
dren  ; '  but  I  beg  that  your  anathemas  may  all  rest 
where  they  belong,  upon  my  head,  and  that  you  will 
spare  the  motherless  girl  you  have  taught  to  love  you." 

Up  and  down  the  study  the  Doctor  paced,  with  a 
feverish,  restless  step,  which  in  all  the  history  of  the 
parsonage  had  never  been  heard  in  it  before. 

"Such  untruth!"  is  his  exclamation.  "Yet  no, 
there  has  been  no  positive  untruth  ;  the  deception  he 
admits. " 

But  the  great  fact  comes  back  upon  his  thought,  that 
the  child  of  sin  and  shame  is  with  him.  All  his  old  dis 
trust  and  hatred  of  the  French  are  revived  on  the  instant ; 
the  stain  of  their  iniquities  is  thrust  upon  his  serene 
and  quiet  household.  And  yet  what  a  sweet  face,  what 
a  confiding  nature  God  has  given  to  this  creature  con 
ceived  in  sin  !  In  his  simplicity,  the  good  Doctor  would 
have  fancied  that  some  mark  of  Cain  should  be  fixed  on 
the  poor  child. 

Again,  the  Doctor  had  somewhere  in  his  heart  a  little 
of  the  old  family  pride.  The  spinster  had  ministered 
to  it,  coyly  indeed  by  word,  but  always  by  manner  and 
conduct.  How  it  would  have  shocked  the  stout  Major, 
or  his  good  mother,  even,  to  know  that  he  had  thus 
fondled  and  fostered  the  vagrant  offspring  of  iniquity 
upon  his  hearth  !  A  still  larger  and  worthier  pride  the 


THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION.  265 

Doctor  cherished  in  his  own  dignity,  —  so  long  the  hon 
ored  pastor  of  Ashfield,  —  so  long  the  esteemed  guide  of 
this  people  in  paths  of  piety. 

What  if  it  should  appear  that,  during  almost  the  en 
tire  period  of  his  holy  ministrations,  he  had,  as  would 
seem,  colluded  with  an  old  acquaintance  of  his  youth  —  a 
brazen  reprobate  —  to  shield  him  from  the  shame  of  his 
own  misdeeds,  and  to  cover  with  the  mantle  of  respect 
ability  and  with  all  the  pastoral  dignities  this  French- 
speaking  child,  who,  under  God,  was  the  seal  of  the 
father's  iniquities  ? 

As  he  paced  back  and  forth,  there  was  a  timid  knock 
at  the  door  ;  and  in  a  moment  more  Adele,  blooming 
with  health,  and  radiant  with  hope,  stood  before  him. 
Her  face  had  never  beamed  with  a  more  wondrous 
frankness  and  sweetness. 


XTJTT. 

The  Spinsters  Indignation. 

THE  foreign  letters  rarely  came  singly  ;  and  Adele 
had  already  accomplished  the  reading  of  her  own 
missive,  in  which  Maverick  had  spoken  of  his  having 
taken  occasion  to  address,  by  the  same  mail,  a  line  to 
the  Doctor  on  matters  of  business,  "  in  regard  to  which," 
(he  had  said,)  "  don't,  my  dear  Adele,  be  too  inquisitive, 
even  if  you  observe  that  it  is  cause  of  some  perplexity 
to  the  good  Doctor.  Indeed,  in  such  case,  I  hope  you 


266  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

will  contribute  to  his  cheer,  as  I  am  sure  you  have  often 
done.  We  owe  him  a  large  debt  of  gratitude,  my  child, 
and  I  rely  upon  you  to  add  your  thankfulness  to  mine, 
and  speak  for  both." 

"  You  look  troubled,  New  Papa,"  said  Adele.  "  Can 
I  help  you  ?  Eh,  Doctor  ?  " 

And  she  came  toward  him  in  her  playful  manner,  and 
patted  the  old  gentleman  on  the  shoulder,  while  he  sat 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"  I  don't  think  papa  writes  very  cheerfully,  do  you  ? 
Eh,  —  Doctor  —  Benjamin  —  Johns  ?  "  (Tapping  him 
with  more  spirit.)  —  "  Why,  New  Papa,  what  does  this 
mean  ?  " 

For  the  Doctor  had  raised  his  head  now,  and  regarded 
her  with  a  look  of  mingled  yearning  and  distrust  that 
was  wholly  new  to  her. 

"  Pray,  New  Papa,  what  is  it  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman  —  so  utterly  guileless  —  was  puz 
zled  for  an  answer ;  but  his  ingenuity  came  to  his  relief 
at  length. 

"No,  Adaly,  your  father  does  not  write  cheerfully,  — 
certainly  not ;  he  speaks  of  the  probable  loss  of  his  for 
tune." 

Now  Adele,  with  her  parsonage  training,  had  really 
very  little  idea  of  fortune. 

"  That  means  I  won't  be  rich,  New  Papa,  I  suppose. 
But  I  don't  believe  it ;  he  will  have  money  enough,  I  'm 
sure.  It  don't  disturb  me,  New  Papa,  —  not  one  whit." 

The  Doctor  was  so  poor  a  hand  at  duplicity  that  he 
hardly  knew  what  to  say,  but  meantime  was  keeping 


THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION.  267 

his  eye  with  the  same  dazed  look  upon  the  charming 
Adele. 

"You  look  so  oddly,  New  Papa,  —  indeed  you  do! 
You  have  some  sermon  in  your  head,  now  have  n't  you, 
that  I  have  broken  in  upon  ?  —  some  sermon  about  - 
about  —  let  us  see." 

And  she  moved  toward  his  desk,  where  the  letter  of 
Maverick  still  lay  unfolded. 

The  Doctor,  lost  in  thought,  did  not  observe  her 
movement  until  she  had  the  letter  fairly  in  her  hand  ; 
then  he  seized  it  with  a  suddenness  of  gesture  that  in 
stantly  caught  the  attention  of  Adele. 

A  swift,  deep  color  ran  over  her  face. 

"  It  is  for  my  eye  only,  Adah*,"  said  the  Doctor,  ex 
citedly,  folding  it  and  placing  it  in  his  pocket. 

Adele,  with  her  curiosity  strangely  piqued,  said,  — 

"I  remember  now,  papa  told  me  as  much." 

"  What  did  he  teU  you,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Not  to  be  too  curious  about  some  business  affairs  of 
which  he  had  written  you." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  But  why  should  n't  I  be  ?  TeU  me,  New  Papa,"  (toy 
ing  now  with  the  silvered  hair  upon  the  forehead  of  the 
old  gentleman,)  "is  he  really  in  trouble  ?  '' 

"No  new  trouble,  my  child,  — no  new  trouble." 

For  a  moment  Adele's  thought  flashed  upon  that  mys- 
tery  of  the  mother  she  had  never  seen,  and  an  uncon 
trollable  sadness  came  over  her. 

"  Yet  if  there  be  bad  news,  why  should  n't  I  know  it  ?  " 
said  she.  "  I  must  know  it  some  day." 


268  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"'Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,'"  said 
the  Doctor,  gravely.  "  And  if  bad  news  should  ever 
come  to  you,  my  dear  Adaly,  —  though  I  have  none  to 
tell  you  now,  —  may  you  have  strength  to  bear  it  like  a 
Christian ! " 

"  I  will !  I  can  !  "  said  she,  with  a  great  glow  upon 
her  face. 

Never  more  than  in  that  moment  had  the  heart  of  the 
old  gentleman  warmed  toward  the  little  stranger. 

When  Reuben  came  presently  to  summon  Adele  to 
their  evening  engagement  at  the  Elderkins',  the  Doctor 
followed  their  retreating  figures,  as  they  strolled  out  of 
the  parsonage-gate,  with  a  new  and  strange  interest. 
Most  inscrutable  and  perplexing  was  the  fact,  that  this 
outcast  child,  whom  scarce  one  in  his  parish  would  have 
been  willing  to  admit  to  the  familiarities  of  home,  —  this 
daughter  of  infidel  France,  about  whose  mind  the  tra 
ditions  of  the  Babylonish  harlot  had  so  long  lingered,  — 
who  had  never  known  motherly  counsel  or  a  father's  re 
proof,  —  that  she,  with  the  stain  of  heathenism  upon 
her  skirts,  should  have  grown  into  the  possession  of  such 
a  holy,  placid,  and  joyous  trust.  And  there  was  his 
poor  son  beside  her,  the  child  of  so  many  hopes,  reared, 
as  it  were,  under  the  very  droppings  of  the  altar,  still 
wandering  befogged  in  the  mazes  of  error,  if  indeed,  he 
were  not  in  his  secret  heart  a  scoffer.  Now  that  such 
a  result  was  wholly  impracticable  and  impossible,  it  did 
occur  to  him  that  perhaps  no  helpmeet  for  Reuben  could 
so  surely  guide  him  in  the  way  of  truth.  But  of  any 
perplexity  of  judgment  on  this  score  he  was  now  wholly 


THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION.  269 

relieved.  If  his  own  worldly  pride  had  not  stood  in  the 
way,  (and  he  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  weakness  of  this 
kind,)  the  wish  of  Maverick  was  authoritative  and  final. 
The  good  man  had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  how 
matters  might  really  stand  between  the  two  young  par 
ties  ;  he  had  discovered  the  anxieties  of  Miss  Eliza  in  re 
gard  to  them,  and  had  often  queried  with  himself  if  too 
large  a  taint  of  worldliness  were  not  coloring  the  man 
oeuvres  of  his  good  sister.  For  himself  he  chose  rather 
to  leave  the  formation  of  all  such  ties  in  the  hands  of 
Providence  ;  and  entertained  singularly  old-fashioned 
notions  in  regard  to  the  sacredness  of  the  rnarriage- 
bond  and  the  mystery  of  its  establishment. 

In  view,  however,  of  possible  eventualities,  it  was  ne 
cessary  that  he  should  come  to  a  full  understanding 
with  the  spinster  in  regard  to  the  state  of  affairs  between 
Adcle  and  Reuben,  and  that  he  should  make  disclosure 
to  her  of  the  confessions  of  Maverick.  For  the  second 
time  in  his  life  the  Doctor  dreaded  the  necessity  of  tak 
ing  his  sister  into  full  confidence.  The  first  was  on  that 
remarkable  occasion  —  so  long  past  by  —  when  he  had 
declared  his  youthful  love  for  Rachel,  and  feared  the  op 
position  which  would  grow  out  of  the  spinster's  family 
pride.  Now,  as  then,  he  apprehended  some  violent  out 
break. 

After  clue  reflection  on  the  letter  of  Maverick,  the 
Doctor  stepped  softly  to  the  stairs,  and  said,  — 

"  Eliza,  may  I  speak  with  you  for  a  few  moments  in 
the  study  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  the  parson's  tone  that  prom- 


270  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ised  an  important  communication  ;  and  Miss  Johns  pres 
ently  appeared  and  seated  herself,  work  in  hand,  over 
against  the  parson,  at  the  study-table.  Older  than  when 
we  took  occasion  to  describe  her  appearance  in  the 
earlier  portion  of  this  narrative,  and  —  if  it  could  be  — 
more  prim  and  stately.  A  pair  of  delicately  bowed  gold 
spectacles  were  now  called  into  requisition  by  her,  for 
the  nicer  needle-work  on  which  she  specially  prided  her 
self.  Yet  her  eye  had  lost  none  of  its  apparent  keen 
ness,  and  inclining  her  head  slightly,  she  threw  an  in 
quiring  glance  over  her  spectacles  at  the  Doctor,  who 
was  now  as  composed  as  if  the  startling  news  of  the  day 
had  been  wholly  unheard. 

"Eliza,"  said  he,  "you  have  sometimes  spoken  of  the 
possibility  of  an  attachment  between  Adaly  and  our 
poor  Reuben." 

"Yes,  I  have,  Benjamin,"  said  the  spinster,  with  an 
air  of  confidence  that  seemed  to  imply  full  knowledge 
of  the  circumstances. 

"Do  you  see  any  strong  indications  of  such  attach 
ment,  Eliza  ?  " 

"Well,  really,  Benjamin,"  said  she, — holding  her 
needle  to  the  light,  and  bringing  her  spectacles  to  bear 
upon  the  somewhat  difficult  operation  (at  her  age)  of 
threading  it,  —  "  really,  I  think  you  may  leave  that  mat 
ter  to  my  management." 

"The  letter  which  I  have  received  to-day  from  Mr. 
Maverick  alludes  to  a  rumor  of  such  intimacy." 

"  Really  !  "  —  and  the  lady  eyes  the  Doctor  with  a 
look  of  keen  expectation. 


THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION.  271 

"Mr.  Maverick,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "  in  referring  to 
the  matter,  speaks  of  the  probable  loss  of  his  fortune." 

"Is  it  possible,  brother?  Loss  of  his  fortune!" 
And  the  spinster  gives  over  attention  to  her  work,  while 
she  taps  with  her  thimble,  reflectively,  upon  the  elbow 
of  her  chair.  "I  don't  think,  Benjamin,"  said  she,  "that 
Reuben  has  committed  himself  in  any  way." 

"  That  is  well,  perhaps,  Eliza  ;  it  is  quite  as  I  had 
supposed." 

"  And  so  the  poor  man's  fortune  is  gone  !  "  continued 
the  spinster  plaintively. 

"  Not  gone  absolutely,  Eliza.  Maverick's  language  is, 
that  his  estate  is  in  great  peril,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  Ah  !  "  The  spinster  is  thoughtful  and  silent  for  a 
while,  during  which  the  thimble-linger  is  also  quiet. 
"  Does  your  friend  Maverick  speak  approvingly  of  such 
an  attachment,  brother  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,  Eliza  ;  he  condemns  it  in  the  strong 
est  terms." 

Miss  Johns  is  amazed  at  this  revelation  ;  and  having 
taken  off  her  golden-bowed  spectacles,  she  passes  them 
in  a  nervous  way,  from  end  to  end,  upon  the  Doctor's 
table. 

"  Benjamin,"  says  she  presently,  with  a  shrewd  look 
and  her  sharpest  tone,  "  I  don't  think  his  fortune  is  in 
any  peril  whatever.  I  think  Reuben  Johns  is  a  good 
match  for  Miss  Adele  Maverick,  any  day." 

"  Tut,  tut,  Eliza !  we  must  not  glorify  ourselves 
vainly.  If  Maverick  disapproves,  and  Reuben  shows  no 
inclination,  our  course  is  both  plain  and  easy." 


272  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  But  I  am  not  so  sure  about  the  inclination,  Benja 
min,"  said  the  spinster,  sharply  ;  and  she  replaced  her 
spectacles. 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the 
parson. 

The  good  man  had  hoped  that  by  only  a  partial  rev 
elation  of  the  contents  of  the  letter  he  might  divert  his 
sister  effectually  from  any  matrimonial  schemes  she 
might  have  in  hand,  and  so  spare  himself  the  pain  of  a 
full  disclosure.  It  was  quite  evident  to  him,  however, 
that  his  plan  had  miscarried.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  lay  before  her  the  whole  disagreeable  truth. 

When  the  Doctor  commenced  the  reading  of  the  let 
ter,  Miss  Johns  resumed  her  needle-work  with  a  resolute 
composure  that  seemed  to  imply,  "  The  Johns  view  of 
the  case  has  been  stated  ;  let  us  now  listen  to  what  Mr. 
Maverick  may  have  to  say." 

For  a  while  her  fingers  plied  nimbly  ;  but  there  came 
a  pause,  —  an  exclamation  of  amazement,  and  her  work 
(it  was  a  bit  of  embroidery  for  poor  Adele)  was  dashed 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Benjamin,  this  is  monstrous  !  The  French  hussy  ! 
Reuben,  indeed !  " 

The  Doctor  returned  composedly  to  his  reading. 

"  No,  brother,  I  want  to  hear  no  more.  What  a  wretch 
this  Maverick  must  be  !  " 

"  A  sinner,  doubtless,  Eliza  ;  yet  not  a  sinner  before 
all  others." 

The  spinster  was  now  striding  up  and  down  the  room 
in  a  state  of  extraordinary  excitement.  With  a  strange 


THE  SPINSTER'S  INDIGNATION.  273 

inconsequence,  she  seized  the  letter  from   the  Doctor's 
hands,  and  read  it  through  to  the  end. 

"I  am  bewildered,  Benjamin.  To  think  that  the 
Johns  name  should  be  associated  with  such  shame  and 
guilt !  " 

"Whosoever  exalteth  himself  shall  be  abased."  mur 
mured  the  Doctor. 

But  the  spinster  was  in  no  mood  for  listening  to 
Scriptural  applications. 

"And  that  he  should  dare  to  ask  us  to  cloak  for  him 
this  great  scandal !  "  continued  she,  wrathfully. 

"  For  the  child's  sake,  Eliza,  —  for  poor  Adaly." 

"  While  I  am  mistress  of  your  household,  brother,  I 
shall  try  to  maintain  its  dignity  and  respectability.  Do 
you  consider,  Benjamin,  how  much  these  are  necessary 
to  your  influence  ?  " 

"  Without  doubt,  Eliza  ;  yet  I  cannot  perceive  how 
these  would  suffer  by  dealing  gently  with  this  unfortu 
nate  child.  A  very  tender  affection  for  her  has  grown 
upon  me,  Eliza  ;  it  would  sadden  me  grievously,  if  she 
were  to  go  out  from  among  us  bearing  unkind 
thoughts." 

"  And  is  your  affection  strong  enough,  Benjamin,  to 
make  you  forget  all  social  proprieties,  and  the  honor 
able  name  of  our  family,  and  to  wish  her  stay  here  as 
the  wife  of  Keuben  ?  " 

The  Doctor  may  have  winced  a  little  at  this  ;  and 
possibly  a  touch  of  worldly  pride  entered  into  his  reply. 

"  In  this  matter,  Eliza,  I  think   the  wish  of   Maverick 
is  to  be  respected.'' 
18 


274  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  Pah  !     For  my  part,  I  respect  much  more  the  Johns 

name." 

As  the  spinster  retired  to  her  room,  after  being  over 
heated  in  the  discussion,  in  which  the  calmness  of  the 
Doctor,  and  the  news  he  had  communicated,  contributed 
almost  equally  to  her  frenzy,  she  cast  a  look,  in  pass 
ing,  upon  the  bed-chamber  of  Adele.  There  were  all 
the  delicate  fixtures,  in  which  she  had  taken  such  a 
motherly  pride,  —  the  spotless  curtains,  the  cherished 
vases,  and  certain  toilet  adornments,  —  her  gifts,  —  by 
each  one  of  which  she  had  hoped  to  win  a  point  in  the 
accomplishment  of  her  ambitious  project.  In  the  flush 
of  her  disappointment  she  could  almost  have  torn  down 
the  neatly  adjusted  drapery,  and  put  to  confusion  this 
triumph  of  her  housewifely  skill.  But  cooler  thoughts 
succeeded  ;  and,  passing  on  into  her  own  chamber,  she 
threw  herself  into  her  familiar  rocking-chair  and  enter 
ed  upon  a  long  train  of  reflections,  whose  result  will 
very  likely  have  their  bearing  upon  the  development  of 
our  story. 

XLIV. 

Philip  Elderkin. 

ABOUT  this  time,  Phil  Elderkin  had  come  back  from 
his  trip  to  the  West  Indies,  —  not  a  little  bronzed 
by  the  fierce  suns  he  had  met  there,  but  stalwart  as  ever, 
with  his  old  free,  frank  manner,  to  which  he  had  super- 
added  a  little  of  that  easy  confidence  and  self-poise  which 


PHILIP  ELDERKIX.  275 

come  of  wide  intercourse  with  the  world.  The  old 
Squire  took  a  pride  he  had  never  anticipated  in  walking 
down  the  street  arm  in  arm  with  his  stalwart  son,  (whoa? 
support,  indeed,  the  old  gentleman  was  beginning  to 
need,)  and  in  watching  the  admiring  glances  of  the 
passers-by,  and  of  such  old  cronies  as  stopped  to  shake 
hands  and  pass  a  word  or  two  with  the  Squire's  youngest 
boy. 

Even  the  Doctor  had  said,  "  You  have  reason  to  be 
proud  of  your  boy,  Squire.  I  trust  that  in  time  he  may 
join  piety  to  prudence." 

"Hope  he  may,  hope  he  may,  Doctor,"  said  the  Squire. 
"Fine  stout  lad,  is  n't  he,  Doctor?" 

Of  course  Phil  had  met  early  with  Eeuben,  and  with 
the  fresh  spirit  of  their  old  school-days.  Phil  had  very 
likely  been  advised  of  the  experiences  which  had  brought 
Eeuben  again  to  Ashfield,  and  of  the  questionable  re 
sult,  —  for  even  this  had  become  subject  of  village  gos 
sip  ;  but  of  such  matters  there  was  yery  coy  mention  on 
the  part  of  young  Elderkin.  Phil's  world-knowledge 
had  given  him  wise  hints  on  this  score.  And  as  for  Eeu 
ben,  the  encounter  with  such  frank,  outspoken  hearti 
ness  and  manliness  as  belonged  to  his  old  school-friend 
was,  after  his  weary  mental  struggle  of  the  last  few 
months,  immensely  refreshing. 

"  Phil,  my  good  fellow,  your  coming  is  a  great  god-send 
to  me.  I  've  been  worrying  at  the  theologies  here  ;  but  it 's 
blind  work.  I  think  I  shall  get  back  to  business  again." 

"But  you  have  n't  made  it  blind  for  Adele,  Eeuben, 
—  so  thev  tell  me." 


276  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"And  it  is  true.  Faith,  Phil,  if  I  could  win  her 
beautiful  trust  I  would  give  my  right  arm,  —  indeed,  I 
would." 

Sister  Rose  had,  of  course,  met  Phil  on  his  return 
most  gushingly.  There  is  something  very  beautiful  in 
that  warm  sisterly  affection  which  at  a  certain  age  can 
put  no  bounds  to  its  admiring  pride.  There  is  a  fading 
away  of  it  as  the  years  progress,  and  as  the  sisters  drop 
into  little  private  clamorous  circles  of  their  own,  and 
look  out  upon  other  people  through  the  spectacles  of 
their  husband's  eyes,  —  as  they  are  pretty  apt  to  do  ;  but 
for  a  long  period  following  upon  the  school  age  it  is 
very  tender  and  beautiful.  If  Phil  had  been  coarse,  or 
selfish,  or  awkward,  or  ten  times  the  sinner  in  any  way 
that  he  was,  Rose  would  most  surely  have  found  some 
charming  little  excuse  for  each  and  every  sin,  and  de 
lighted  in  reflecting  upon  him  the  glow  of  her  own 
purity. 

Of  course  she  insists  coyly  upon  his  making  the  village 
rounds  with  her.  Those  intellectual  ladies,  the  Misses 
Hapgood,  must  have  an  opportunity  of  admiring  his 
grand  air,  and  the  easy  manner  he  has  brought  back 
with  him  of  entering  a  parlor,  or  of  passing  the  compli 
ments  of  the  day  ;  and,  indeed,  those  respectable  old 
ladies  do  pay  him  the  honor  of  keeping  him  in  waiting, 
until  they  can  arrange  their  best  frontlets,  and  present 
themselves  in  their  black  silks  and  in  kerchiefs  wet  with 
lavender. 

Then  with  what  a  bewildering  success  the  traveler, 
under  convoy  of  the  delighted  Rose,  comes  down  upon 


PHILIP  ELDERKIN.  277 

the  family  of  the  Tourtelots  !  What  an  elaborate  toilet 
Almira  matures  for  his  reception !  and  how  the  Dame 
nervously  dusts  and  redusts  her  bombazine  at  sight  of 
his  grand  manner,  as  she  peeps  through  the  half-opened 
blinds ! 

The  Deacon  is  not,  indeed,  so  much  "  taken  off  the 
hooks  "  by  Phil,  but  entertains  him  in  the  old  way. 

"  Pooty  well  on 't  for  beef  cattle  in  Cuby,  Philip  ?  " 

And  Eose's  eyes  glisten,  as  Brother  Philip  goes  on  to  set 
forth  some  of  the  wonders  of  the  crops,  and  the  culture. 

"Waal,  they're  smart  farmers,  I've  heerd,"  says  the 
Deacon  ;  "but  we're  rnakin'  improvements  here  in  Ash- 
field.  Doiin't  know  as  you  've  seen  Square  Wilkinson's 
new  string  o'  wall  he  's  been  a-buildin'  all  the  way  be 
tween  his  home  pastur'  and  the  west  inedders  ?  " 

Phil  has  not. 

"Waal,  it's  wuth  seein'.  I  doiin't  know  what  they 
pretend  to  have  in  Cuby  ;  but  in  my  opinion  there  a'n't 
such  another  string  o'  stone  fence,  not  in  the  whole 
caounty ! " 

And  Phil  has  had  his  little  private  talks  with  Eose, 
—  about  Adele,  among  other  people. 

"  She  is  more  charming  than  ever,"  Rose  had  said. 

"I  suppose  so." 

And  there  had  been  a  pause  here. 

"  I  suppose  Eeuben  is  as  tender  upon  her  as  ever," 
Phil  had  said  at  last,  in  his  off-hand  way. 

"  He  has  been  very  devoted  ;  but  I  'm  not  sure  that  it 
means  anything,  Phil,  dear.'' 

"I  should  think  it  meant  a  great  deal,"  said  PhiL 


27^  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"I  mean,"  continued  Rose,  reflectingly,  and  with 
eome  embarrassment  of  speech,  "I  don't  think  Adele 
speaks  of  Reuben  as  if  —  as  I  should  —  think  "  — 

"  As  you  would,  Rose,  —  is  that  it  ?  " 

"For  shame,  Phil!" 

And  Phil  begged  pardon  with  a  kiss. 

"Do  you  think,  Phil,"  said  Rose,  concealing  a  little 
mattering  of  the  heart  under  very  smoothly  spoken  words, 
"  do  you  think  that  Reuben  really  loves  Adele  ?  " 

"Think  so?  To  be  sure,  Rose.  How  can  he  help 
it?  It's  enough  for  me  to  see  her  as  I  do,  odd  whiles 
in  our  parlor,  or  walking  up  and  down  the  garden  with 
you,  Rose  ;  if  I  were  to  meet  her  every  night  and  morn 
ing,  as  Reuben  must,  I  should  go  mad." 

"  Aha  ! "  said  Rose,  laughingly  ;  "  that 's  not  the  way 
lovers  talk,  —  at  least,  not  in  books.  I  think  you  are 
safe,  Phil.  And  yet"  (with  a  soberer  air)  "I  did  think, 
Phil,  one  while,  that  yon  thought  very,  very  often,  and 
a  great  deal,  of  Adele  ;  and  I  was  not  sorry." 

"Did  you,  Rose?"  said  Phil,  eagerly;  "did  you 
truly  ?  Then  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret,  Rose,  —  mind,  Rose, 
a  great  secret,  never  to  be  lisped,  —  not  to  mother  even. 
I  did  love  Adele  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  You 
know  the  strange  little  French  hat  she  used  to  wear? 
Well,  I  used  to  draw  it  on  my  slate  at  school,  Rose  ;  it 
was  all  I  could  draw  that  belonged  to  her.  Many  's  the 
time  when,  if  a  boy  came  near,  I  would  dash  in  some 
little  nourishes  about  it,  and  call  it  a  basket  or  a  coal- 
scoop  ;  but  all  the  while,  for  me,  her  little  dark  eyes 
were  shining  under  it.  But  there  was  Reuben,  —  and 


PHILIP  ELDERKIN.  -79 

he  beat  me  in  reading  and  writing,  and  everything,  1 
think,  but  fisticuffs." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  said  Hose,  with  the  prettily  arched  brow 
which  mostly  accompanied  only  her  mischievous  sallies  ; 
and  it  seemed  to  Phil  afterwards  that  she  would  have  re 
sented  the  statement,  if  he  had  made  it  concerning  any 
other  young  fellow  in  Ashfield. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  continued  he.  "I  knew  he  must  beat 
me  out  and  out  with  Adele.  Do  you  remember,  Rose, 
how  you  told  me  once  that  he  had  sent  a  gift  of  furs  to 
her  ?  Well,  Rose,  I  had  my  own  little  gift  hidden  away 
for  her  for  that  same  New- Year's  Day,  and  I  burned  it. 
Those  furs  kept  me  awake  an  awful  time.  And  when  I 
went  away,  Rose,  I  prayed  that  I  might  learn  to  forget 
her  ;  but  there  was  never  a  letter  of  yours  that  came 
with  her  name  in  it,  (and  most  of  them  had  it,  you 
know,)  but  I  saw  her  as  plainly  as  ever,  with  her  arm 
laced  in  yours,  as  I  used  to  see  you  many  a  time  from 
my  window,  strolling  down  the  garden.  And  now  that 
I  have  come  back,  Rose,  it 's  the  same  confounded  thing. 
By  Jove,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  pitch  into  Reuben,  as  I  used 
to  do  at  school.  But  then  — he 's  a  good  fellow." 

"I'm  sure  he  is,"  said  Rose.  "But,  Phil,"  continued 
she,  meditatively,  "it  seems  to  me,  if  I  were  a  man,  and 
loved  a  woman  as  you  love  Adele,  I  should  find  some  way 
of  letting  her  know  it." 

"  Would  you,  Rosy  ?  Do  you  think  there  's  a  ghost 
of  a  chance  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Phil ;  Adele  is  not  one  who  talks  of 
such  things." 


280  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  Nor  you,  I  think,  Eose." 

Now  it  happened  that  this  private  conversation  took 
place  upon  the  same  day  on  which  had  transpired  the 
interview  we  have  already  chronicled  between  the  Doc 
tor  and  Miss  Johns.  Reuben  and  Adele  were  to  pass 
the  evening  at  the  Elderkins'.  Adele  was  not  of  a  tem 
per  to  be  greatly  disturbed  by  the  rumor  at  which  the 
Doctor  had  hinted  of  a  lost  fortune.  (We  write,  it  must 
be  remembered,  of  a  time  nearly  thirty  years  gone  by.) 
Indeed,  as  she  tripped  along  beside  Reuben,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  she  had  never  been  in  a  more  jocular  and 
vivacious  humor.  A  reason  for  this  (and  it  is  what,  pos 
sibly,  many  of  our  readers  may  count  a  very  unnatural 
one)  lay  in  the  letter  which  she  had  that  day  received 
from  her  father,  in  which  Maverick,  in  alluding  to  a 
possible  affaire  de  cceur  in  connection  with  Reuben,  had 
counseled  her,  with  great  earnestness,  to  hold  her  affec 
tions  in  reserve,  and,  above  all,  to  control  most  rigidly 
any  fancy  which  she  might  entertain  for  the  son  of  their 
friend  the  Doctor. 

It  amused  Adele  ;  for  Reuben  had  been  so  totally  un 
demonstrative  in  matters  of  sentiment,  (possibly  keep 
ing  his  deeper  feelings  in  reserve,)  that  Adele  had  felt 
over  and  over  a  girl's  mischievous  propensity  to  provoke 
it.  Not  that  she  was  in  any  sense  heartless ;  not  that 
she  did  not  esteem  him,  and  feel  a  keen  sense  of  grati 
tude  ;  but  his  kindest  and  largest  favors  were  always  at 
tended  with  such  demureness  and  reticence  of  manner 
as  piqued  her  womanly  vanity.  For  these  reasons  there 
was  something  exhilarating  to  her  in  the  intimation  coiy 


THE  SPINSTER'S  POLICY.  281* 

veyed  by  Maverick's  letters,  that  she  was  the  party,  after 
all,  upon  whose  decision  must  rest  the  peace  of  mind  of 
the  two,  and  that  she  must  cultivate  the  virtue  of  treat 
ing  him  with  coolness. 

Possibly  it  would  have  been  an  easy  virtue  to  cultivate, 
even  though  Reuben's  attentions  had  shown  the  warmth 
which  the  blood  of  nineteen  feminine  years  craves  in  a 
lover  ;  but  as  the  matter  stood,  there  wTas  something 
amusing  to  her  in  Maverick's  injunction.  As  if  there 
were  any  danger  !  As  if  there  could  be  !  Should  it 
growr  serious  some  day,  it  would  be  time  enough  then 
to  consider  her  good  papa's  injunction  ;  very  possibly  she 
would  pay  the  utmost  heed  to  it,  since  a  respect  for  Mr. 
Maverick's  opinions  and  advice  was  almost  a  part  of 
Adele's  religion. 

XLV. 

The  Spinsters  Policy. 

WE  left  Miss  Eliza  Johns  in  her  chamber,  swaying 
back  and  forth  in  her  rocking-chair,  and  reso 
lutely  confronting  the  dire  news  which  the  Doctor  had 
communicated.     What  was  to  be  done  ? 

Adele  was  to  be  discarded,  but  not  suddenly.  All  her 
art  must  be  employed  to  disabuse  Reuben  of  any  linger 
ing  tenderness.  The  Doctors  old  prejudice  against 
French  blood  must  be  worked  to  its  utmost.  But  there 
must  be  no  violent  clamor,  —  above  all,  no  disclosure  of 
the  humiliating  truth.  Maverick  (the  false  man  !)  must 


182  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

be  instructed  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  the  Johns 
family  —  nay,  that  their  sense  of  dignity  demanded  — 
that  he  should  reclaim  his  child  at  an  early  day. 

She  was  not  the  woman  to  sleep  upon  her  plans,  when 
once  they  were  decided  on  ;  and  she  had  no  sooner  fore 
cast  her  programme  than  she  took  advantage  of  the  lin 
gering  twilight  to  arrange  her  toilet  for  a  call  upon  the 
Elderkins.  Of  course  she  led  off  the  Doctor  in  her  trail. 
The  spinster's  "marching  orders,"  as  he  jocularly  termed 
them,  the  good  man  was  as  incapable  of  resisting  as  if 
he  had  been  twenty  years  a  husband. 

In  a  few  swift  words  she  unfolded  her  design. 

"  And  now,  Benjamin,  don't,  .pray,  let  your  sentiment 
get  the  better  of  you,  in  regard  to  this  French  girl. 
Think  of  the  proprieties  in  the  case,  Benjamin,  —  the 
proprieties," — which  she  enforced  by  a  little  shake  of 
her  forefinger. 

Whenever  it  came  to  a  question  of  the  "  proprieties," 
the  Doctor  was  conscious  of  his  weakness. 

What,  indeed,  can  any  man  do,  when  a  woman  bases 
herself  on  the  "  proprieties"? 

It  was  summer  weather,  and  the  windows  of  the  hos 
pitable  Elderkin  mansion  were  wide  open.  As  the  Doc 
tor  and  spinster  drew  near,  little  gusts  of  cheery  music 
came  out  to  greet  their  ears.  For,  at  this  time,  Miss 
Almira  had  her  rival  pianos  about  the  village  ;  and  the 
pretty  Eose  had  been  taught  a  deft  way  of  touching  the 
"  first-class  "  instrument,  which  the  kind-hearted  Squire 
had  bestowed  upon  her.  Indeed,  if  it  must  be  told, 
little  sparkling  waltzes  had  from  time  to  time  waked 


THE  SPINSTER'S  POLICY.  283 

the  parlor  solitude,  and  the  kind  Mistress  Elderkin  had 
winked  at  little  furtive  parlor-dances  on  the  part  of  Rose 
and  Adele,  —  they  had  so  charmed  the  old  Squire,  and 
set  all  his  blood  (as  he  said,  with  a  gallant  kiss  upon  the 
brow  of  Mrs.  Elderkin)  flowing  in  the  old  school-boy 
currents.  Now  it  happened  upon  this  very  evening,  that 
the  Squire,  though  past  seventy  now,  was  in  the  humor 
to  see  a  good  old-fashioned  frolic;  so  while  Rose  was 
rattling  off  some  crazy  waltz,  Phil,  at  a  hint  from  the  old 
gentleman,  had  taken  possession  of  Adele,  and  was  show 
ing  off  with  a  good  deal  of  grace,  and  more  spirit,  the 
dancing-steps  of  which  he  had  had  experience  with  the 
Spanish  seiioritas. 

Dame  Tourtelot,  who  chanced  to  be  present,  wore  a 
long  face,  which  (it  is  conceivable)  the  hearty  old  Squire 
enjoyed  as  much  as  the  dancing.  But  Mrs.  Elderkin 
must  have  looked  with  a  warm  maternal  pride  upon  the 
fine  athletic  figure  of  her  boy,  as  he  went  twirling  down 
the  floor  with  that  graceful  figure  of  Adele. 

Upon  the  very  midst  of  it,  however,  the  Doctor  and 
Miss  Johns  came  like  a  cloud.  The  fingers  of  Rose 
rested  idly  on  the  keys.  Adele,  who  was  gay  beyond 
her  wont,  alone  of  all  the  company  could  not  give  over 
her  light-heartedness  on  the  instant :  so  she  makes 
away  to  greet  the  Doctor,  —  Miss  Johns  standing  hor 
rified. 

"  New  Papa,  you  have  surprised  us.  Phil  was  show 
ing  me  some  new  steps.  Do  you  think  it  very,  very 
wrong  ? " 

"  Adaly !  Adaly  !  " 


284  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  Ah,  you  dear  old  man,  it  is  n't  wrong  ;  say  it  is  n't 
wrong." 

By  this  time  the  Squire  has  come  forward. 

"  Ah,  Doctor,  young  folks  will  be  young  folks  ;  but  I 
think  you  won't  have  a  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Elderkin  yon 
der.  My  dear,"  (addressing  Mrs.  Elderkin,)  "  you  must 
set  this  matter  right  with  the  Doctor.  We  must  keep 
our  young  people  in  his  good  books." 

"  The  good  books  are  not  kept  by  me,  Squire,"  said 
the  parson. 

Ileuben,  who  had  been  loitering  about  Rose,  and  who, 
to  do  him  justice,  had  seen  Phil's  gallant  attention  to 
Adele  without  one  spark  of  jealousy,  was  specially  in 
terested  in  this  interruption  of  the  festivities.  In  his 
present  state  of  mind,  he  was  most  eager  to  know  how 
far  the  evening's  hilarity  would  be  imputed  as  a  sin  to 
the  new  convert,  and  how  far  religious  severities  (if  she 
met  any)  would  control  the  ardor  of  Adele.  The  Doc 
tor's  face  softened,  even  while  he  talked  with  the  charm 
ing  errant,  —  Reuben  observed  that ;  but  with  Aunt 
Eliza  the  case  was  different.  Never  had  he  seen  such  a 
threatening  darkness  in  her  face. 

"We  have  interrupted  a  ball,  I  fear,"  she  said  to  the  hos 
tess,  in  a  tone  which  was  as  virulent  as  a  masculine  oath. 

"  Oh  !  no  !  no  !  "  said  Mrs.  Elderkin.  "Indeed,  now, 
you  must  not  scold  Adele  too  much ;  't  was  only  a  bit 
of  the  Squire's  foolery." 

"  Oh,  certainly  not ;  she  is  quite  her  own  mistress. 
I  should  be  very  sorry  to  consider  myself  responsible  for 
all  her  tastes." 


THE  SPINSTER'S  POLICY.  285 

Reuben,  hearing  this,  felt  his  heart  leap  toward 
Adele  in  a  way  which  the  spinster's  praises  had  never 
provoked. 

Dame  Tourtelot  here  says,  in  her  most  aggravating 
manner,  — 

"I  think  she  dances  beautiful,  Miss  Johns.  She  dooz 
yer  credit,  upon  my  word  she  dooz." 

And  thereupon  there  followed  a  somewhat  lively  al 
tercation  between  those  two  sedate  ladies,  —  in  the 
course  of  which  a  good  deal  of  stinging  mockery  was 
covered  with  unctuous  compliment.  But  the  spinster 
did  not  lose  sight  of  her  chief  aim,  to  wit,  the  refusal 
of  all  responsibility  as  attaching  to  the  conduct  of  Adele, 
and  a  most  decided  intimation  that  the  rumors  which 
associated  her  name  with  Reuben  were  unfounded,  and 
were  likely  to  prove  altogether  false. 

This  last  hint  was  a  revelation  to  the  gossiping  Dame  ; 
there  had  been  trouble,  then,  at  the  parsonage :  things 
were  clearly  not  upon  their  old  footing.  Was  it  Adele  ? 
Was  it  Reuben  ?  Yet  never  had  either  shown  greater 
cheer  than  on  this  very  night.  But  the  Dame  none  the 
less  eagerly  had  communicated  her  story,  before  the 
evening  closed,  to  Mrs.  Elderkin,  —  who  received  it 
doubtingly,  —  to  Rose,  who  heard  it  with  wonder  and  a 
pretty  confusion,  —  and  to  the  old  Squire,  who  said 
only,  '•'  Pooh  !  pooh  !  it  's  a  lover's  quarrel ;  we  shall  be 
all  straight  to-morrow."' 

Adele,  by  her  own  choice,  was  convoyed  home,  when 
the  evening  was  over,  by  the  good  Doctor,  and  had  not 
only  teazed  him  into  pardon  of  her  wild  mirth,  before 


286  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

they  had  reached  the  parsonage-gate,  but  had  kindled 
in  him  a  glow  of  tenderness  that  made  him  utterly  for 
getful  of  the  terrible  news  of  the  day.  Reuben  and 
the  spinster,  as  they  followed,  talked  of  Rose  ;  never  had 
Aunt  Eliza  spoken  so  warmly  of  her  charms ;  but  be 
fore  him  was  tripping  along,  in  the  moonlight,  the  grace 
ful  figure  of  Adele,  clinging  to  the  old  gentleman's  arm, 
and  it  is  doubtful  if  his  eye  did  not  feast  more  upon  that 
vision  than  his  ear  upon  the  new  praises  of  the  spinster. 

Yet,  for  all  that,  Rose  was  really  charming.  The 
young  gentleman,  it  would  seem,  hardly  knew  his  own 
heart ;  and  he  had  a  wondrous  dream  that  night. 
There  was  a  church,  (such  as  he  had  seen  in  the  city,) 
and  a  delicately  gloved  hand,  which  lay  nestling  in  his  ; 
and  Mr.  Maverick,  oddly  enough,  appeared  to  give  away 
a  bride,  and  all  waited  only  for  the  ceremony,  which  the 
Doctor  (with  his  old  white  hat  and  cane)  refused  to  per 
form  ;  whereat  Phil's  voice  was  heard  bursting  out  in  a 
great  laugh  ;  and  the  face  of  Rose,  too,  appeared  ;  but 
it  was  only  as  a  saint  upon  a  painted  window.  And  yet 
the  face  of  the  saint  upon  the  window  was  more  distinct 
than  any  thing  in  his  dream. 

The  next  morning  found  Miss  Eliza  harsh  and  cold. 
Even  the  constrained  smile  with  which  she  had  been 
used  to  qualify  her  "  good-morning "  for  Adele  was 
wanting ;  and  when  the  family  prayers  were  said,  in 
which  the  good  Doctor  had  pleaded,  with  unction,  that 
the  Christian  grace  of  charity  might  reign  in  all  hearts, 
the  poor  girl  had  sidled  up  to  Miss  Eliza,  and  put  her 
hand  in  the  spinster's,  — 


THE   SPINSTER'S  POLICY.  287 

"  You  think  our  little  frolic  last  night  to  be  very 
•wrong,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  spinster.  "I  dare  say  Mr,  Maver 
ick  and  your  French  relatives  would  approve." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  language  as  the  tone  which 
smote  on  poor  Adele,  and  brought  the  tears  welling  into 
her  eyes. 

Reuben,  seeing  it  all,  and  forgetful  of  the  good  par 
son's  plea,  gnawed  his  lip  to  keep  back  certain  very 
harsh  utterances. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  Ady,"  said  he,  watching  his  chance 
a  little  later  ;  "  the  old  lady  is  in  one  of  her  blue  moods 
to-day." 

"Do  you  think  I  did  wrong,  Reuben?  "said  Adele, 
earnestly. 

"I?  Wrong,  Adele?  Pray,  what  should  I  have  to 
say  about  the  right  or  wrong  ?  and  I  think  the  old  la 
dies  are  beginning  to  think  I  have  no  clear  idea  of  the 
difference  between  them." 

"  You  have,  Reuben !  you  have !  And,  Reuben," 
(more  tenderly,)  "I  have  promised  solemnly  to  live  as 
you  thought  a  little  while  ago  that  you  would  live.  And 
if  I  were  to  break  my  promise,  Reuben,  I  know  that  you 
would  never  renew  yours." 

"I  believe  you  are  speaking  God's  truth,  Adele,"  said 
he. 

The  summer  months  passed  by,  and  for  Adele  the  lit 
tle  table  at  the  parsonage  had  become  as  bleak  and 
cheerless  as  the  autumn.  Miss  Johns  maintained  the 
rigid  severity  of  manner,  with  which  she  had  undertaken 


288  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

to  treat  the  outcast  child,  with  a  constancy  that  would 
have  clone  credit  to  a  worthier  intent.  Even  the  good 
Doctor  was  unconsciously  oppressed  by  it,  and  by  the 
spinster's  insistance  upon  the  due  proprieties  he  was 
weaned  away  from  his  old  tenderness  of  speech ;  but 
every  morning  and  every  evening  his  voice  trembled 
with  emotion  as  he  prayed  for  God's  grace  and  mercy 
upon  all  sinners  and  outcasts. 

He  had  written  to  Maverick,  advising  him  of  the  great 
grief  which  his  confession  had  caused  him,  and  implor 
ing  him  to  make  what  reparation  he  yet  might  do,  by 
uniting  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony  with  the  erring 
mother  of  his  child.  He  had  further  advised  him  that 
his  apprehensions  with  regard  to  Reuben  were,  so  far 
as  was  known,  groundless.  He  further  wrote,  —  "  Upon 
consultation  with  Miss  Johns,  who  is  still  at  the  head  of 
our  little  household,  I  am  constrained  to  ask  that  you 
take  as  early  a  time  as  may  be  convenient  to  relieve  her 
of  the  further  care  of  your  daughter.  Age  is  beginning 
to  tell  somewhat  upon  my  sister  ;  and  the  embarrassment 
of  her  position  with  respect  to  Adele  is  a  source,  I  be 
lieve,  of  great  mental  distress." 

All  which  the  good  Doctor  honestly  believed,  —  upon 
Miss  Eliza's  averment,  —  and  in  his  own  honest  way  he 
assured  his  friend,  that,  though  his  sins  were  as  scarlet 
he  should  still  implore  Heaven  in  his  favor,  and  should 
part  from  Adele  —  whenever  the  parting  might  come  — 
with  real  grief,  and  with  an  outpouring  of  his  heart. 

As  for  Reuben,  a  wanton  levity  had  come  over  him 
in  those  latter  days  of  summer  that  galled  the  poor  Doc- 


THE  SPINSTER'S  POLICY.  289 

tor  to  the  quick,  and  that  strangely  perplexed  the  obser 
vant  spinster.  It  was  not  the  mischievous  spirit  of  his 
boyhood  revived  again,  but  a  cold,  passionless,  deter 
mined  levity,  such  as  men  wear  who  have  secret  griefs 
to  conceal.  He  talked  in  a  free  and  easy  way  about  the 
Doctor's  Sunday  discourses,  that  fairly  shocked  the  old 
people  of  the  parish  ;  rumor  said  that  he  had  passed 
some  unhallowed  jokes  with  the  stolid  Deacon  Tourtelot 
about  his  official  duties ;  and  it  was  further  reported 
that  he  had  talked  open  infidelity  with  a  young  physi 
cian  who  had  recently  established  himself  in  Ashfield, 
and  who  plumed  himself  —  until  his  tardy  practice 
taught  him  better  —  upon  certain  arrogant  physiological 
notions  with  regard  to  death  and  disease  that  were  quite 
unbiblical.  Long  ago  the  Doctor  had  given  over  open 
expostulation  ;  every  such  talk  seemed  to  evoke  a  new 
and  more  airy  and  more  adventurous  demon  in  the  back 
slidden  Reuben.  The  good  man  half  feared  to  cast  his 
eye  over  the  books  he  might  be  reading.  If  it  were  Vol 
taire,  if  it  were  Hume,  he  feared  lest  his  rebuke  and 
anathema  should  give  a  more  appetizing  zest. 

But  he  prayed  —  ah,  how  he  prayed !  with  the  dead 
Rachel  in  his  thought  —  as  if  (and  this  surely  cannot  be 
Popishly  wicked)  —  as  if  she,  too,  in  some  sphere  far 
remote,  might  with  angel  voice  add  tender  entreaty  to 
the  prayer,  whose  burden,  morning  after  morning  and 
night  after  night,  was  the  name  and  the  hope  of  her 
boy. 

And  Adele  ?  Well,  Reuben  pitied  Adele.  —  pitied  her 
subjection  to  the  iron  frowns  of  Miss  Eliza  ;  and  almost 
19 


290  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  only  earnest  words  he  spoke  in  those  days  were  little 
quiet  words  of  good  cheer  for  the  French  girl.  And 
when  Miss  Eliza  whispered  him,  as  she  did,  that  the  poor 
child's  fortune  was  gone,  and  her  future  insecure,  Eeu- 
ben,  with  a  brave  sort  of  antagonism,  made  his  words  of 
cheer  and  good-feeling  even  more  frequent.  But  about 
his  passing  and  kindly  attentions  to  Adele  there  was  that 
air  of  gay  mockery  which  overlaid  his  whole  life,  and 
which  neither  invited  nor  admitted  of  any  profound  ac 
knowledgment.  His  kindest  words  —  and  some  of 
them,  so  far  as  mere  language  went,  were  exuberantly 
tender  —  were  met  always  by  a  half -saddened  air  of 
thankfulness  and  a  little  restrained  pressure  of  the  hand, 
as  if  Adele  had  said,  —  "Not  in  earnest  yet,  Eeuben  — 
earnest  in  nothing  !  " 


XLVI. 

A   Pkrenzy. 

IT  would  have  been  strange,  if  Adele  had  not  some  day 
formed  her  ideal  of  a  lover.  Who  cannot  recall  the 
sweet  illusions  of  those  tripping  youthful  years,  when, 
for  the  first  time,  Sir  William  WTallace  strode  so  gallant 
ly  with  waving  plume  and  glittering  falchion  down  the 
pages  of  Miss  Porter,  — when  the  sun-browned  Ivanhoe 
dashed  so  grandly  into  that  famous  tilting-ground  near 
to  Ashby-de-la-Zouch,  and  brought  the  wicked  Sir  Brian 
de  Bois-Guilbert  to  a  reckoning,  —  when  we  wished  the 


A   PHRENZY.  291 

disinherited  knight  better  things  than  the  cold  love  of 
the  passionless  Eowena,  and  sighed  over  the  fate  of  poor 
Fergus  Mac-Ivor  ?  With  all  these  characters,  and  inany 
other  such,  Adele  had  made  acquaintance,  in  company 
with  her  dear  Eose,  and  by  the  light  of  them,  they  had 
fashioned  such  ideals  in  their  little  heads  as  do  not  often 
appeal-  in  the  flesh.  Not  that  the  two  Mends  always 
agreed  in  their  dreamy  fancies ;  but  for  either,  a  hero 
must  have  been  handsome  and  brave  and  true  and  kind 
and  sagacious  and  learned.  If  only  a  few  hundred  of 
men  should  be  patterned  after  the  design  of  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen  or  eighteen,  what  an  absurd  figure  we 
old  sinners  should  cut  in  the  comparison  ! 

But  the  ideal  of  our  friend  Adele  had  not  been  con 
stant.  Three  years  back,  the  open,  frank,  brave  front 
which  Phil  Elderkin  wrore  had  almost  reached  it ;  and 
when  Eose  had  said,  —  as  she  was  wont  to  say,  in  her 
sisterly  pride,  —  "  He  's  a  noble  fellow,"  there  had  been 
a  little  tingling  of  the  heart  in  Adele,  which  seemed  to 
echo  the  words.  Afterward  had  come  that  glimpse  of 
the  world  which  her  journey  and  intercourse  with  Mav 
erick  had  afforded  ;  and  the  country  awkwardness  of  the 
Elderkins  had  somehow  worked  an  eclipse  of  his  virtues. 
Eeuben,  indeed,  had  comeliness,  and  had  caught  at  that 
time  some  of  the  graces  of  the  city  ;  but  Eeuben  was  a 
tease,  and  failed  in  a  certain  quality  of  respect  for  her, 
(at  least,  she  fancied  it,)  in  default  of  which  she  met  all 
his  favors  with  a  sisterly  tenderness,  in  which  there  was 
none  of  the  reserve  that  tempts  passion  to  declare  itself. 

Later,  when  Eeuben  so  opened  the  way  to  her  belief, 


292  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

and  associated  himself  so  intimately  with  the  culmina 
tion  of  her  religious  faith,  he  seemed  to  her  for  a  time 
the  very  impersonation  of  her  girlish  fancy,  —  so  tender, 
so  true,  so  trustful.  Her  religious  enthusiasm  blended 
with  and  warmed  her  sentiment  ;  and  never  had  she 
known  such  hours  of  calm  enjoyment,  or  such  hopeful 
forecast  of  her  worldly  future,  as  in  those  golden  days 
\vhen  the  hearts  of  both  were  glowing  (or  seemed  to  be) 
with  a  common  love.  It  was  not  that  this  sentiment  in 
her  took  any  open  form  of  expression ;  her  instinctive 
delicacy  so  kept  it  under  control  that  she  was  but  half 
conscious  of  its  existence.  But  it  was  none  the  less  true 
that  the  sad  young  pilgrim,  who  had  been  a  brother,  and 
who  had  unlocked  for  her  the  Beautiful  Gate,  wore  a 
new  aspect.  Her  heart  was  full  of  those  glittering  esti 
mates  of  life,  which  come  at  rare  intervals,  in  wrhich 
duties  and  affections  all  seem  in  delightful  accord,  work 
ing  each  their  task,  and  glowing  through  all  the  reach  of 
years,  until  the  glow  is  absorbed  in  the  greater  light 
which  shines  upon  Christian  graves.  But  Reuben's  de 
sertion  from  the  faith  broke  this  phantasm.  Her  faith, 
standing  higher,  never  shook ;  but  the  sentiment  which 
grew  under  its  cover  found  nothing  positive  wrhereby  to 
cling,  and  perished  with  the  shock.  Besides  which,  her 
father's  injunction  came  to  the  support  of  her  religious 
convictions,  and  made  her  disposition  to  shake  off  that 
empty  fancy  tenfold  strong.  Had  Reuben,  in  those  days 
of  his  exaltation,  made  declaration  of  his  attachment,  it 
would  have  met  with  a  response  that  could  have  admit 
ted  of  no  withdrawal,  and  her  heart  would  have  been 


A    PHREXZY.  293 

leashed  to  his,  whatever  outlawry  might  threaten  him. 
She  thanked  Heaven  that  it  had  not  been  thus.  Her 
ideal  was  still  sustained  and  unbroken  ;  but  it  no  long 
er  found  its  type  in  the  backsliding  Reuben.  It  is  doubt 
ful,  indeed,  if  her  sentiment  at  this  period,  by  mere 
force  of  rebound,  and  encouraged  by  her  native  charities 
and  old  proclivities,  did  not  rally  about  young  Elder- 
kin,  who  had  equipped  himself  with  many  accomplish 
ments  of  the  world,  and  who,  if  he  made  no  pretensions 
to  the  faith  she  had  embraced,  manifested  an  habitual 
respect  that  challenged  her  gratitude. 

As  for  Reuben,  after  his  enthusiasm  of  the  summer 
had  vanished,  he  felt  a  prodigious  mortification  in  re 
flecting  that  Adele  had  been  so  closely  the  witness  of 
his  shortlived  hallucination.  It  humiliated  him  bit 
terly  to  think  that  all  his  religious  zeal  had  proved  in 
her  regard  but  the  empty  crackling  of  a  fire  of  thorns. 
No  matter  what  may  be  a  youth's  sentiment  for  girl 
hood,  he  never  likes  it  to  be  witness  of  any  thing  dis 
paraging  to  his  sturdy  resolution  and  manly  purpose. 
But  Adele  had  seen  him  shake  like  a  reed  under  the 
deepest  emotions  that  could  give  tone  to  character  ;  and 
in  his  mortification  at  the  thought,  he  transferred  to 
her  a  share  of  the  resentment  he  felt  against  himself.  It 
had  been  a  relief  to  treat  her  with  a  dignified  coolness, 
and  to  meet  all  her  tender  inquiries,  which  she  did  not 
forbear,  with  an  icy  assurance  of  manner  that  was  more 
than  half  affected,  — yet  not  unkind,  but  assiduously  and 
intensely  and  provokingly  civil. 

Seeing  this,  the  Doctor  and  Miss  Eliza  had  given  over 


294  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

any  fear  of  a  possibly  dangerous  interest  on  the  part  oi 
Eeuben  ;  and  yet  keen  observers  might  well  have  scented 
a  danger  in  this  very  studied  indifference,  if  they  reflected 
that  its  motive  lay  exclusively  in  a  mortified  pride.  We 
are  not  careful  to  conceal  our  mortifications  from  those 
whose  regard  we  rate  humbly. 

At  any  rate,  it  happened  that,  with  the  coming  of  the 
autumn  months,  Eeuben,  still  floating  drearily  on  a  sea 
of  religious  speculation,  and  veering  more  and  more  into 
open  mockery  of  the  beliefs  of  all  about  him,  grew  weary 
of  his  affectations  with  respect  to  Adele.  He  fretted 
under  the  kindly  manner  with  which  she  met  his  august 
civilities.  They  did  not  wound  her  sensibilities,  as  he 
hoped  they  might  have  done.  Either  this  disappoint 
ment  or  the  need  of  relief  provoked  a  change  of  tactics. 
With  a  sudden  zeal  that  was  half  earnest  and  half  a  freak 
of  vanity,  he  devoted  himself  to  Adele.  The  father's 
sympathy  with  him  was  just  now  dead  ;  that  of  the  aunt 
had  never  been  kindled  to  such  a  degree  as  to  meet  his 
craving  ;  with  the  Elderkins  he  was  reluctant  to  unfold 
his  opinions  so  far  as  to  demand  sympathy.  As  for 
Adele,  if  he  could  light  up  again  the  sentiment  which 
he  once  saw  beaming  in  her  face,  he  could  at  least  find 
in  it  a  charming  beguilement  of  his  unrest.  She  had  a 
passion  for  flowers  :  every  day  he  gathered  for  her  some 
floral  gift ;  every  day  she  thanked  him  with  a  kindness 
that  meant  only  kindness.  She  had  a  passion  for  poe 
try  :  every  day  he  read  to  her  such  as  he  knew  she  must 
admire  ;  every  day  she  thanked  him  with  a  warmth  upon 
which  he  could  build  no  hopes. 


A   PHRENZY.  295 

Both  the  Doctor  and  Miss  Eliza  were  disturbed  by 
this  new  zeal  of  his.  At  the  instance  of  the  spinster,  the 
Doctor  undertook  to  lay  before  Reuben  the  information 
conveyed  in  the  letter  of  Maverick,  and  that  gentleman's 
disapproval  of  any  association  between  the  young  people 
looking  to  marriage.  It  was  not  an  easy  or  an  agreeable 
task  for  the  Doctor  ;  and  he  went  about  it  in  a  very 
halting  manner. 

"  Your  Aunt  Eliza  has  observed,  Reuben,  that  you 
have  lately  become  more  pointed  in  your  attentions  to 
Adaly." 

"  I  dare  say,  father ;  worries  her,  does  n't  it  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  know  how  far  these  attentions  may  be 
serious,  Reuben." 

"  Nor  I,  father." 

The  Doctor  was  shocked  at  this  new  evidence  of  his 
son's  indifference  to  an}'  fixed  rule  of  conduct. 

"  How  long  is  it,  father,"  continued  Reuben,  "  since 
Aunt  Eliza  has  commenced  her  plottings  against 
Adele?" 

"  Xot  plottings  against  her,  I  trust,  Reuben." 

"  Yes,  she  has,  father.  She  's  badgering  her  in  her 
quiet  way  incessantly,  —  as  far  back  as  when  she  caught 
sight  of  her  in  that  dance  at  the  ELderkins'.  For  my 
part,  I  think  it  was  a  charming  thing  to  see." 

'•'  We  have  graver  reasons  for  our  anxiety  in  regard  to 
your  relations  with  her,  my  son  ;  and  not  the  least  of 
them  is  Mr.  Maverick's  entire  disapproval  of  aiDy  such 
attachment." 

And  thereupon  the  Doctor  had  proceeded  to  lay  before 


296  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Reuben  (who  now  showed  a  most  lively  interest)  a  full 
revelation  of  the  facts  announced  in  Maverick's  letter. 

The  son  had  a  strong  smack  of  the  father's  family 
pride,  and  the  strange  news  was  bewildering  to  him  ; 
but  in  his  present  stage  of  distrust,  he  felt  a  strong  dis 
position  to  protest  against  all  the  respectable  conven 
tionalities  that  hedged  him  in.  A  generous  instinct  in 
him,  too,  as  he  thought  of  the  poor  girl  under  the  ban 
of  the  towns  folk,  craved  some  chivalric  expression  ;  and 
whatever  sentiment  he  may  really  have  entertained  for 
her  in  past  days  took  new  force  in  view  of  the  sudden 
barriers  that  rose  between  him  and  the  tender,  graceful, 
confiding,  charming  Adele,  whose  image  had  so  long 
and  (as  he  now  thought)  so  constantly  dwelt  in  the 
dreamy  mirage  of  his  future.  Under  the  spur  of  these 
feelings,  he  presently  gave  over  his  excited  walk  up  and 
down  the  study,  and,  coming  close  to  the  Doctor,  whis 
pered,  with  a  grave  earnestness  that  made  the  old  gen 
tleman  recognize  a  man  in  his  boy,  — 

"  Father,  I  have  doubted  my  own  feelings  about 
Adele  :  now  I  do  riot.  I  love  her  ;  I  love  her  madly.  I 
shall  protect  her  ;  if  she  will  marry  me,"  (and  he  touched 
the  Doctor  on  the  shoulder  with  a  quick,  nervous  tap  of 
his  hand,)  "  I  shall  marry  her,  —  God  bless  her  !  " 

And  Reuben,  by  the  very  speech,  as  well  as  by  the 
thoughts  that  had  gone  before,  had  worked  himself  into 
a  passion  of  devotion. 

"Be  careful,  my  son,"  said  the  old  gentleman;  ''re 
member  how  your  enthusiasm  has  betrayed  you  in  a  still 
more  serious  matter." 


A    PHREXAY.  297 

Reuben  smiled  bitterly. 

"Don't  reproach  me  with  that,  father.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  am  acting  now  more  on  the  side  of  the  Chris 
tian  charities  than  either  you  or  Aunt  Eliza." 

And  with  this  he  strode  out,  leaving  the  Doctor  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension. 

A  moment  after,  Miss  Eliza,  who  was  ever  on  the  alert, 
and  without  whose  knowledge  a  swallow  could  not  dart 
into  the  chimneys  of  the  parsonage,  came  rustling  into 
the  study. 

"  Well,  Benjamin,  what  does  Reuben  say?  " 

'•'  Given  over  to  his  idols,  Eliza,  —  given  over  to  his 
idols.  We  can  only  pray  God  to  have  him  in  His  holy 
keeping." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  fathom  all  the  emotions  of 
Reuben  during  that  interview  with  his  father.  It  would 
be  wrong  to  say  that  the  view  of  future  marriage  had 
not  often  held  up  its  brilliant  illusions  before  him  ;  it 
would  be  wrong  to  say  that  they  had  never  been  asso 
ciated  with  the  charming  vivacity  of  Adele,  as  well  as, 
at  other  times,  with  the  sweet  graces  of  Rose  El  Jerkin. 
But  these  illusions  had  been  of  a  character  so  transitory, 
so  fleeting,  that  he  had  come  to  love  their  brilliant 
changes,  and  to  look  forward  with  some  dread  to  the 
possible  permanence  of  them,  or  such  fixedness  as 
should  take  away  the  charming  drift  of  his  vagaries.  If, 
in  some  wanton  and  quite  impossible  moment,  the  mod 
est  Rose  had  conquered  her  delicacy  so  far  as  to  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  say,  "  Will  you  be  my  husband  ?  "  he 
would  not  have  been  so  much  outraged  bv  her  boldness 


298  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

as  disturbed  by  the  reflection  that  a  pleasant  little  dream 
of  love  was  broken  up,  and  that  his  thought  must  come  to 
that  practical  solution  of  a  yes  or  no  which  would  make 
an  end  of  his  delightful  doubts  and  yearnings.  The 
positive  and  the  known  are,  after  all,  so  much  less  under 
imaginative  measure,  than  the  uncertain  and  the  dreamy! 

And  if  he  could  have  taken  the  spinster's  old  tales  of 
Adele's  regard  for  him  and  devotion  to  him  at  their  high 
est  truth,  (which  he  never  did,  because  of  the  girl's  pro 
voking  familiarity  and  indifference,)  he  would  have  felt 
a  great  charm  in  his  life  cut  off.  Yet  now  he  wanders 
in  search  of  her  with  his  heart  upon  his  lip  and  a  great 
fire  in  his  brain.  Not  a  little  pride  in  affronting  opinion 
may  have  kindled  the  glow  of  his  sudden  resolve. 
There  was  an  audacity  in  it  that  tempted  and  regaled 
him.  Why  should  he,  whose  beliefs  were  so  uncertain, 
who  had  grown  into  doubts  of  that  faith  on  which  all 
the  conventional  proprieties  about  him  reposed,  —  why 
should  he  not  discard  them,  and  obey  a  single,  strong, 
generous  instinct  ?  When  a  man's  religious  sensibilities 
suffer  recoil  as  Reuben's  had  done,  there  grows  up  a  new 
pride  in  the  natural  emotions  of  generosity ;  the  humane 
instincts  show  exceptional  force  ;  the  skeptics  become 
the  teachers  of  an  exaggerated  philanthropy. 

Did  he  love  her  beyond  all  others?  Yesterday  he 
could  not  have  told  ;  to-day,  under  the  fervor  of  his  au 
dacity  and  of  his  pride,  his  love  blazes  up  in  a  fiery 
flame.  It  seethes  around  the  memory  of  her  lithe,  grace 
ful  figure  in  a  whirl  of  passion.  Those  ripe  red  lips 
shall  taste  the  burning  heat  of  his  love  and  tenderness. 


WILL   SHE?  .          299 

He  will  guard,  cherish,  protect,  and  the  iron  aunt  may 
protest,  or  the  world  talk  as  it  will  "  Adele !  Adele  !  " 
His  heart  is  full  of  the  utterance,  and  his  step  wild  with 
tumultuous  feeling,  as  he  rushes  away  to  find  her,  —  to 
win  her,  —  to  bind  together  their  destinies  forever  ! 


XLVIL 

WiU  She? 

IT  was  a  mellow  evening  of  later  October.  Mists 
hung  in  all  the  hollows  of  the  hills.  Within  the 
orchard,  where  Adele  was  strolling,  a  few  golden  apples 
still  shone  among  the  bronzed  leaves.  She  saw  Reuben 
coming  swiftly  through  the  garden  ;  but  his  eager  step 
faltered  as  he  came  near  her.  Even  the  serene  look  of 
girlhood  has  a  power  in  it  to  make  impassioned  confi 
dence  waver,  and  enthusiasms  suffer  recoil.  He  meets 
her  at  last  with  an  assumption  of  his  every-day  manner, 
which  she  cannot  but  see  presently  is  underlaid  with  a 
tempest  of  struggling  feeling  to  which  he  is  a  stranger. 
He  has  taken  her  hand  and  placed  it  within  his  arm,  — 
a  little  coquettish  device  to  which  he  was  wont ;  but  he 
keeps  the  little  hand  in  his  with  a  nervous  clasp  that  is 
new,  and  that  makes  her  tremble  all  the  more  when  his 
speech  grows  impassioned,  and  the  easy  compliments  of 
his  past  days  of  frolicsome  humor  take  a  depth  of  tone 
which  makes  her  heart  thrill  strangely.  Meantime,  they 
had  come  to  the  garden-end  of  the  walk. 


300          .  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"It's  late,  Reuben,  and  I  must  go  in-doors,"  said  she, 
with  a  quiet  that  she  did  not  feel. 

"  We  '11  take  one  more  turn,  Ad&le  ;  you  must."  And 
her  hand  trembled  in  the  eager  clasp  he  fastened  upon 
it. 

Not  once  did  it  come  into  her  mind  that  Reuben  was 
to  make  a  declaration  of  passion  for  her.  She  had 
feared  only  some  burst  of  feeling  in  the  direction  of  the 
spinster,  or  of  the  Doctor,  which  should  compromise 
him  even  more  seriously.  When,  therefore,  he  burst 
forth,  as  he  did  presently,  with  a  passionate  avowal  of 
his  love,  she  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion. 

"  This  is  so  sudden,  so  strange,  Reuben  !  indeed  it 
is!" 

Tenderly  as  she  may  have  felt  toward  him  in  days 
gone,  and  gratefully  as  she  always  felt,  this  sudden  at 
tempt  to  carry  by  storm  the  very  citadel  of  her  affections 
was  not  alone  a  surprise,  but  seemed  like  sacrilege. 
The  mystery  and  doubt  that  overhung  the  relations  be 
tween  her  own  father  and  mother  —  and  which  she  felt 
keenly  —  had  made  her  regard  with  awe  any  possible 
marriage  of  her  own,  investing  the  thought  of  it  with  a 
terrible  sanctity,  and  as  something  to  be  approached 
only  with  a  reverent  fear.  If  in  this  connection  she  had 
ever  thought  of  Reuben,  it  was  in  those  days  when  he 
seemed  so  earnest  in  the  faith,  and  when  their  feelings 
were  blent  by  some  superhuman  agency.  But  at  his 
divergence  into  the  paths  of  skepticism,  it  seemed  to  her 
simple  and  intense  faith  that  thenceforth  their  pilgrim 
ages  must  be  wholly  distinct:  his — and  she  trembled 


WILL   SHE?  301 

at  the  thought  of  it  —  through  some  terrible  maze  of 
error,  where  she  could  not  follow  ;  and  hers  —  by  God's 
grace  —  straight  to  the  city  whose  gates  are  of  pearl. 

When,  therefore,  she  had  replied  to  the  passionate 
address  of  Reuben,  "  You  must  not  talk  thus,"  it  was 
with  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

"  It  grieves  you,  then,  Adele  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  grieves  me,  Reuben.  Our  paths  are  differ 
ent  now  ;  "  and  she  bethought  herself  of  her  father's  in 
junction,  which  seemed  to  make  her  duty  still  plainer, 
and  forbade  her  to  encourage  that  parley  with  her  heart 
which  —  with  her  hand  still  fast  in  Reuben's,  and  his  eyes 
beaming  with  a  fierce  heat  upon  her  —  she  was  begin 
ning  to  entertain. 

"  Adele,  tell  me,  can  I  go  on  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  must  not,  Reuben  !  "  —  and 
withdrawing  her  hand  suddenly,  she  passed  it  over  brow 
and  eyes,  as  if  to  rally  her  thoughts  to  measure  the  situ 
ation. 

"  You  are  weeping,  Adele  ?  "  said  Reuben. 

"No,  not  weeping,"  said  she,  dashing  the  merest  film 
of  mist  from  her  eyes,  "  but  so  troubled !  —  so 
troubled  !  "  And  she  looked  yearningly,  but  vainly,  in 
his  face  for  that  illumination  which  had  belonged  to  his 
enthusiasm  of  the  summer. 

They  walked  for  a  moment  in  silence,  —  he,  with  a 
scowl  upon  his  face.  Seeing  this,  Adele  said,  plaintive 
ly, — 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Reuben,  as  if  this  might  be  only  a 
solemn  mockery  of  yours." 


302  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  You  doubt  me,  then  ?  "  returned  lie  like  a  flash. 

"  Do  you  not  doubt  yourself,  Reuben  ?  Have  you 
never  doubted  yourself? "  This  with  a  glance  that 
pierced  him  through. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  are  you  turned  preacher  ?  "  said  he, 
bitterly.  "Will  you  measure  a  heart  by  its  dogmatic 
beliefs?" 

"  For  shame,  Eeuben  !  " 

And  for  a  time  both  were  silent.  At  last  Adele  spoke 
again,  — 

"  There  is  a  sense  of  coming  trouble  that  oppresses 
me  strangely,  —  that  tells  me  I  must  not  listen  to  you, 
Reuben." 

"  I  know  it,  Adele  ;  and  it  is  for  this  I  would  cherish 
you,  and  protect  you  against  all  possible  shame  or  iD dig 
nities  " 

"  Shame  !  Indignities  !  What  does  this  mean  ? 
What  do  you  know,  Reuben  ?  " 

Reuben  blushed  scarlet.  His  speech  had  outrun  his 
discretion  ;  but  seizing  her  hand,  and  pressing  it  more 
tenderly  than  ever,  he  said,  — 

"  Only  this,  Adele  :  I  see  that  a  coolness  has  grown 
up  toward  you  in  the  parsonage  ;  the  old  prejudice 
against  French  blood  may  revive  again  ;  besides  which, 
there  is,  you  know,  Adele,  that  little  family  cloud 

"  Is  this  the  old,  kind  Reuben,  —  my  brother,  —  who 
reminds  me  of  a  trouble  so  shadowy  I  cannot  fairly 
measure  it?"  And  Adele  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Forgive  me,  Adele,  for  God's  sake  !  " 


WILL   SHE?  303 

"  There  is  a  cloud,  Reuben  ;  thank  you  for  the  word," 
said  Adele,  recovering  herself  ;  "and  there  is,  I  fear,  an 
even  darker  cloud  upon  your  faith.  Until  both  are 
passed,  I  can  never  listen  to  such  talk  as  you  would  urge 
upon  roe,  —  never  !  never  !  " 

And  there  was  a  spirit  in  her  words  now  that  awed 
Reuben. 

'•  Would  you  impute  my  unbelief  to  me  as  a  crime, 
Adele  ?  is  this  your  Christian  charity  ?  Do  you  think 
that  I  enjoy  this  fierce  wrestling  with  doubts?  or,  having 
them,  would  you  bid  me  play  false  and  conceal  them  ? 
"What  if  I  am  a  final  castaway,  as  your  good  books  tell 
us  some  must  be,  would  you  make  me  a  castaway  before 
my  time,  and  balk  all  my  hopes  in  life  ?  Is  this  your 
charity?  " 

"  I  would  not,  —  you  know  I  would  not,  Reuben." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Adele.  If  there  be  any  hope  of  mak 
ing  my  way  out  of  this  weary  wrangle,  it  seems  to  me 
that  it  would  be  in  the  constant  presence  of  your  simple, 
exultant  faith.  Will  you  be  my  teacher,  Adele  ?  " 

"Teacher,  —  yes,  with  all  my  heart,  Reuben." 

"Then  be  mine,"  said  he,  seizing  her  hand  again, 
"  from  this  very  hour ! " 

An  instant  she  seemed  to  waver  ;  then  came  over  her 
the  memory  of  her  father's  injunction,  —  the  mystery, 
too,  that  overshadowed  her  own  life. 

"  I  cannot,  —  I  cannot,  Reuben  !  " 

"Is  this  final?"  said  he,  calmly. 

"Final." 

She  sighed  it  rather  than  spoke  aloud  ;  the  next  in^ 


304  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

stant  she  had  slipped  away  through  the  shrubbery,  with 
a  swift,  cruel  rustle  of  her  silken  dress,  toward  the  par 
sonage. 

Keuben  lingered  in  the  orchard  until  he  saw  the  light 
flashing  through  the  muslin  hangings  of  her  window. 
She  had  gone  early  to  her  chamber.  She  had  kissed 
the  crucifix  that  was  her  mother's  with  a  fervor  that 
sprang  as  much  from  devotion  as  from  sentiment.  She 
had  sobbed  out  her  prayer,  and  with  sobs  had  buried 
her  sweet  face  in  the  pillow. 

Could  Keuben  have  seen  or  conceived  all  this,  he 
might  have  acted  differently. 

As  it  was,  he  entered  the  Doctor's  study  an  hour 
later,  with  the  utmost  apparent  coolness. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  he,  "  I  have  offered  marriage  to  your 
motherless  and  pious  French  protegee,  and  she  declines." 

"  My  poor  son  ! "  said  the  Doctor. 

But  his  sympathy  was  not  so  much  with  any  possible 
feeling  of  disappointment  as  with  the  chilling  heartless- 
ness  and  unbelief  that  seemed  to  boast  themselves  in  his 
speech. 

"  It  will  be  rather  dull  in  Ashfield  now,  I  fancy,"  con 
tinued  Reuben,  "  and  I  shall  slip  off  to  New  York  to 
morrow  and  take  a  new  taste  of  the  world." 

And  the  Doctor  (as  if  to  himself)  said  despairingly, 
"  '  Whom  He  will  He  hardeneth.' " 

"But,  father,  said  Eeuben,  (without  notice  of  the  old 
gentleman's  ejaculation,)  "  don't  let  Aunt  Eliza  know  of 
this,  —  not  a  word,  or  she  will  be  fearfully  cruel  to  the 
poor  child." 


WILL   SHE?  305 

There  was  a  grave  household  in  the  parsonage  next 
morning.  Reuben  rebelled  in  heart,  in  face,  and  in 
action  against  the  tediously  long  prayer  of  the  parson, 
though  the  old  gentleman's  spirit  was  writhing  painfully 
in  his  pleadings.  The  aunt  was  more  pious  and  austere 
than  ever.  Adele,  timid  and  shrinking,  yet  with  a  beau 
tiful  and  a  trustful  illumination  in  her  eye,  that  for  days, 
and  weeks,  and  months,  lingered  in  the  memory  of  the 
parson's  son. 

Later  in  the  day  Reuben  went  to  make  his  adieus  to 
the  Elderkins.  The  old  Squire  was  seated  in  his  door 
busied  with  the  "Weekly  Courant,"  which  had  just  come 
in. 

"Aha,  Master  Reuben,"  (this  was  his  old-fashioned 
way,)  "you  're  looking  for  that  lazy  fellow,  Phil,  I  sup 
pose.  You  '11  find  him  up-stairs  with  his  cigar  and  his 
Spanish,  I  '11  venture." 

Reuben  made  his  way  up  to  Phil's  chamber  after  the 
unceremonious  manner  to  which  he  has  been  used  in 
that  hospitable  home,  while  a  snatch  of  a  little  songlet 
from  Rose  came  floating  after  him  along  the  stairs.  It 
was  very  sweet.  But  what  were  sweet  songlets  to  him 
now  ?  It  being  a  mild  autumn  day,  Phil  sat  at  the  open 
window,  from  which  he  had  many  a  time  seen  the  old 
Doctor  jogging  past  in  his  chaise,  and  sometimes  the 
tall  Almira  picking  her  maidenly  way  along  the  walk 
with  her  green  parasol  daintily  held  aloft  with  thumb  and 
two  fingers,  while  from  the  lesser  fingers  dangled  a  little 
embroidered  bag  which  was  the  wonder  of  all  the  school 
girls.  Other  times,  too,  from  this  eyrie  of  his,  he  had 
20 


306  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

seen  Adele  tripping  past,  with  Eeuben  beside  her,  and 
had  wondered  what  their  chat  might  be,  while  he  had 
feasted  his  eyes  upon  her  fair  figure. 

Reuben  was  always  a  welcome  visitor,  and  was  pres 
ently  in  full  flow  of  talk,  and  puffing  nervously  at  one  of 
Phil's  choice  Havanas  (which  in  that  day  were  true  to 
their  titles). 

"  I'm  off,  Phil,"  said  Eeuben  at  last,  breaking  in  upon 
his  host's  ecstasy  over  a  ballad  he  had  been  reciting,  with 
what  he  counted  the  true  Castilian  magniloquence. 

"Off  where?  "said  Phil. 

"  Off  for  the  city.  I  'in  weary  of  this  do-nothing  life, 
—  weary  of  the  town,  weary  of  the  good  people." 

"  There  's  nothing  you  care  for,  then,  in  Ashfield  ?  " 
said  Phil.  And  at  that  moment  a  little  burst  of  the 
singing  of  Rose  came  floating  up  the  stair,  —  so  sweet ! 
so  sweet ! 

"  Care  for  ?  Yes,"  said  Reuben,  "  but  they  are  all  so 
good  !  so  devilish  good  !  "  —  and  he  puffed  at  his  cigar 
with  a  nervous  violence. 

"  I  thought  there  would  have  been  at  least  one  mag 
net  that  would  have  kept  you  here,"  said  Phil. 

"What  magnet,  pray?"  says  Reuben, — somewhat 
calm  again. 

"There  she  goes,"  says  Phil,  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow.  And  at  the  moment  Adele  tripped  by,  with  the 
old  Doctor  walking  gravely  at  her  side. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Reuben,  with  a  composure  that  was 
feigned,  "  she  's  too  much  of  a  Puritan  for  me,  Phil :  or 
rather,  I  'm  too  little  of  a  Puritan  for  her." 


WILL   SHE?  307 

Philip  looked  at  his  companion  keenly.  And  Reuben, 
looking  back  at  him  as  keenly,  said,  after  a  silence  of  a 
few  moments,  — 

"  I  don't  think  you  '11  ever  marry  her  either,  Phil." 

'•Marry!"  said  Phil,  with  a  deep,  honest  blush, — 
"who talks  of  that?" 

"  You,  in  your  heart,  Phil.  Do  you  think  I  am  blind? 
Do  you  think  I  have  not  seen  that  you  have  loved  her, 
Phil,  ever  since  you  knew  what  it  was  to  love  a  woman  ? 
Do  you  think,  that,  as  a  boy,  you  ever  imposed  upon  me 
with  your  talk  about  the  tavern-keeper's  daughter  ? 
Good  Heavens !  Phil,  I  think  there  were  never  two  men 
in  the  world  who  talked  their  thoughts  plainly  to  each 
other  !  Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  that  you  have 
played  the  shy  lover,  because  with  your  big  heart  you 
have  yielded  to  what  you  counted  a  prior  claim  of  mine, 
—  because  Adele  was  one  of  us  at  the  parsonage  ?  " 

"In  such  affairs, "  said  Phil,  with  some  constraint  and 
not  a  little  wounded  pride,  ';  I  don't  think  men  are  apt 
to  recognize  prior  claims." 

Reuben  replied  only  by  a  faint  sardonic  smile. 

"  You  're  a  good  fellow,  Phil,  but  you  won't  marry  her." 

"Of  course,  then,  you  know  why,"  said  Phil,  with 
something  very  like  a  sneer. 

"Certainly,"  said  Reuben.  "Because  you  can't  af 
front  the  world,  because  you  are  bound  by  its  conven 
tionalities  and  respectabilities,  as  I  am  not.  I  spurn 
them." 

"  Respectabilities  !  "  said  Phil,  in  amazement.  "What 
does  this  mean  ?  Just  now  she  was  a  Puritan. " 


3o8  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  It  means,  Phil,"  (and  here  Reuben  reflected  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  puffing  with  savage  energy,)  "it  means 
what  I  can't  wholly  explain  to  you.  You  know  her 
French  blood  ;  you  know  all  the  prejudices  against  the 
faith  in  which  she  was  reared  ;  you  know  she  has  an  in 
stinct  and  will  of  her  own.  In  short,  Phil,  I  don't  think 
you  '11  ever  marry  her  ;  but  if  you  can,  you  may." 

"May!"  said  Phil,  whose  pride  was  now  touched  to 
the  quick.  "  And  what  authority  have  you,  pray  ?  " 

"The  authority  of  one  who  has  loved  her,"  said  Reu 
ben,  with  a  fierce,  quick  tone,  and  dashing  his  half-burnt 
cigar  from  the  window  ;  "the  authority  of  one  who,  if  he 
had  chosen  to  perjure  himself  and  profess  a  faith  which 
he  could  not  entertain,  and  wear  sanctimonious  airs, 
might  have  won  her  heart." 

"I  don't  believe  it! "  said  Phil,  with  a  great  burst  of 
voice.  "  There's  no  hypocrisy  could  win  Adele." 

Reuben  paced  up  and  down  the  chamber,  then  came 
and  took  the  hand  of  his  old  friend  :  — 

"  Phil,  you  're  a  noble-hearted  fellow.  I  never  thought 
any  one  could  convict  me  of  injustice  to  Adele.  You 
have  done  it.  I  hope  you  '11  always  defend  her  ;  and 
whatever  may  betide,  I  hope  your  mother  and  Rose 
will  always  befriend  her.  She  may  need  it." 

Again  there  was  a  little  burst  of  song  from  below,  and 
it  lingered  upon  the  ear  of  Reuben  long  after  he  had 
left  the  Elderkin  homestead. 

The  next  day  he  was  gone,  —  to  try  his  new  taste  of 
the  world. 


CAFE  DE  UORIEXT.  309 

XLvm. 

Cafe  de  V  Orient. 

TT  was  in  no  way  possible  for  the  simple-hearted  Doc- 
-*-  tor  to  conceal  from  the  astute  spinster  the  particular 
circumstances  which  had  hurried  Reuben's  departure, 
and  the  knowledge  of  them  made  her  humiliation  com 
plete.  During  all  the  latter  months  of  Reuben's  stay 
she  had  not  scrupled  to  drop  occasional  praises  of  him 
in  the  ear  of  Adele,  as  in  the  old  times.  It  was  in  agree 
ment  with  her  rigid  notions  of  retribution,  that  this 
poor  social  outlaw  should  love  vainly  ;  and  a  baffling  dis 
appointment  would  have  seemed  to  the  spinster's  narrow 
mind  a  highly  proper  and  most  logical  result  of  the  ter 
rible  ignominy  which  overhung  the  unconscious  victim. 
Indeed,  the  innocent  unconsciousness  of  any  thing  de 
rogatory  to  her  name  or  character  which  belonged  to 
Adele,  and  her  consequent  cheery  mirthfulness,  were 
sources  of  infinite  annoyance  to  Miss  Eliza. 

The  Doctor  showed  all  his  old,  grave  kindness  ;  but 
he  was  sadly  broken  by  his  anxieties  with  respect  to 
his  son  ;  nor  was  he  ever  demonstrative  enough  to  sup 
ply  the  craving  of  Adele's  heart,  under  her  present  greed 
for  sympathy.  Even  the  villagers  looked  upon  her  more 
coldly  since  the  sharpened  speech  of  the  spinster  had 
dropped  widely,  but  very  quietly,  its  damaging  inuen- 
does,  and  since  her  well-calculated  surmises,  —  that 


3io  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

French  blood  was,  after  all,  not  to  be  wholly  trusted. 
It  was  clear  to  the  towns-people  that  all  was  at  an  end 
between  Adele  and  Reuben,  —  clear  that  she  had  fallen 
away  from  the  old  favor  in  which  she  once  stood  at  the 
parsonage ;  and  Miss  Eliza,  by  her  adroit  hints,  and 
without  any  palpable  violation  of  truth,  found  means  of 
associating  these  results  with  certain  suspicious  circum 
stances  which  had  come  to  light  respecting  the  poor 
girl's  character,  —  circumstances  for  which  she  herself 
(Miss  Eliza  was  kind  enough  to  say)  was  not  altogether 
accountable,  perhaps,  but  yet  sufficient  to  warrant  a  lit 
tle  reserve  of  confidence,  and  of  course  putting  an  end 
to  any  thought  of  intimate  alliance  with  "the  Johns 
family."  She  even  whispered  in  her  most  insidious 
manner  into  the  ear  of  old  Mistress  Tew,  —  who,  being 
somewhat  deaf,  was  the  most  inveterate  village  gossip, 
—  that  "it  was  hard  for  the  poor  thing,  when  Reuben 
left  so  suddenly." 

Adele  writes  in  these  times  to  her  father,  that  he  need 
put  himself  in  no  fear  in  regard  to  marriage.  "  I  have 
had  an  eclair cissement  "  (she  says)  "  with  friend  Reuben. 
His  declaration  of  attachment  (I  think  I  may  tell  you 
this,  dear  papa)  was  so  wholly  unexpected  that  I  could 
not  count  it  real.  He  seemed  actuated  by  some  sudden 
controlling  sympathy  (as  he  often  is)  that  I  could  not 
explain  ;  and  had  it  been  otherwise,  your  injunction, 
dear  papa,  and  the  fact  that  he  has  become  a  bitter 
skeptic  in  regard  to  our  most  holy  religion,  would  have 
made  me  pause.  He  dropped  a  hint,  too,  of  the  mys 
tery  attaching  to  my  family,  (not  unkindly,  for  he  is, 


CAFE  DE   UORIEXT.  311 

after  all,  a  dear,  good-hearted  fellow.)  which  kindled  not 
a  little  indignation  in  me  ;  and  I  told  him  —  with  some 
of  the  pride,  I  think,  I  must  have  inherited  from  you, 
papa  —  that,  until  that  mystery  was  cleared,  I  would 
marry  neither  him  nor  another.  Was  I  not  right  ? 

11 1  want  so  much  to  be  with  you  again,  dear  papa,  — 
to  tell  you  all  I  hope  and  fear,  —  to  feel  your  kiss 
again  !  Miss  Johns,  whom  I  have  tried  hard  to  love, 
but  cannot,  is  changed  wofully  in  her  manner  toward 
me.  I  feel  it  is  only  my  home  now  by  sufferance,  — 
not  such  a  home  as  you  would  choose  for  me,  I  am 
sure.  The  Doctor  —  good  soul  — is  as  kind  as  he  knows 
how  to  be,  but  I  want  —  oh,  how  I  want !  —  to  leap  into 
your  arms,  dear  papa,  and  find  home  there.  Why  can  I 
not  ?  I  am  sure  —  over  and  over  sure  —  that  I  could 
bring  some  sunlight  into  a  home  of  yours,  if  you  would 
but  let  me.  And  when  you  come,  as  you  say  you  mean 
to  do  soon,  do  not  put  me  off  with  such  stories  as  you 
once  told  me,  of  '  a  lean  Savoyard  in  red  wig  and  spec 
tacles,  and  of  a  fat  Frenchman  with  bristly  mustache ' 
(you  see  I  remember  all)  ;  tell  me  I  may  come  to  be  the 
mistress  of  your  parlor  and  your  salon,  and  I  will  keep 
all  in  such  order,  that,  I  am  sure,  you  wrill  not  want  me 
to  leave  you  again  ;  and  you  will  love  me  so  much  that  I 
shall  never  want  to  leave  you. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  it  is  very  wearisome  to  me  here. 
The  village  people  seem  all  of  them  to  have  caught  the 
coolness  of  Miss  Johns,  and  look  askance  at  me.  Only 
the  Eklerkins  show  their  old  kindness,  and  it  is  unfail 
ing.  Do  not,  I  pray,  disturb  yourself  about  any  '  lost 


3 12  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

fortune  '  of  which  you  wrote  to  the  Doctor,  but  never  — 
cruel  papa !  —  a  word  to  me.  I  am  rich :  I  can't  tell 
you  how  many  dollars  are  in  the  Savings  Bank  for  me, 
—  and  for  you,  if  you  wrish  them,  I  have  so  little  occasion 
to  spend  anything.  But  I  have  committed  the  extrava 
gance  of  placing  a  beautiful  tablet  over  the  grave  of  poor 
Madame  Aries,  and,  much  to  the  horror  of  the  good  Doc 
tor,  insisted  upon  having  a  little  cross  inscribed  upon 
its  front.  You  have  never  told  me,  dear  papa,  if  you 
received  the  long  account  I  gave  you  of  her  sudden 
death,  and  how  she  died  without  ever  telling  me  any 
thing  of  herself,  —  though  I  believe  it  was  in  her  mind 
to  do  so,  at  the  last." 

No,  of  a  truth,  such  letter  had  never  been  received  by 
Maverick,  and  he  cursed  the  mails  royally  for  it,  since  it 
might  have  prevented  the  need  of  any  such  disclosure  as 
he  had  made  to  his  friend  Johns.  When  the  present 
missive  of  Adele  came  to  him,  he  was  entering  the 
brilliant  Cafe  de  L'Orient  at  Marseilles,  in  company 
with  his  friend  Papiol.  The  news  staggered  him  for  a 
moment. 

"Papiol !  "  said  he,  "  mon  ami,  Julie  is  dead  !  " 

"  Parbleu  !  And  among  your  Puritans,  yonder  ?  She 
must  have  made  a  piquant  story  of  it  all !  " 

"  Not  a  word,  Papiol !  She  has  kept  by  her  promise 
bravely." 

"  Tant  mieux :  it  will  give  you  good  appetite,  mon 
ami." 

For  a  moment  the  better  nature  of  Maverick  had  been 
roused,  and  he  turned  a  look  of  loathing  upon  the  com- 


CAF£  DE  L  ORIENT.  313 

placent  Frenchman  seated  by  him  (which  fortunately 
the  stolid  Papiol  did  not  comprehend).  For  a  moment, 
his  thought  ran  back  to  a  sunny  hill-side  near  to  the  old 
town  of  Aries,  where  lines  of  stunted,  tawny  olives  crept 
down  the  fields,  —  where  fig-trees  showed  their  purple 
nodules  of  fruit,  —  where  a  bright-faced  young  peasant - 
girl,  with  a  gay  kerchief  turbaned  about  her  head  with  a 
coquettish  tie,  lay  basking  in  the  sunshine.  He  heard 
once  more  the  trip  of  her  voice  warbling  a  Provenyal 
song,  while  the  great  ruin  of  the  Roman  arbie  came  once 
more  to  his  vision,  with  its  tufting  shrubs  and  battered 
arches  rising  grim  and  gaunt  into  the  soft  Southern  sky  ; 
the  church-bells  of  the  town  poured  their  sweet  jangle 
on  his  ear  again,  the  murmur  of  distant  voices  came 
floating  down  the  wind,. and  again  the  pretty  Provencal 
song  fluttered  on  the  balmy  air ;  the  coquettish  turban 
was  in  his  eye,  the  plump,  soft  hand  of  the  pretty  Pro 
vencal  girl  in  his  grasp,  and  her  glossy  locks  touched  his 
burning  cheek.  So  much,  at  least,  that  was  Arcadian  ; 
and  then  (in  his  glowing  memory  still)  the  loves,  the 
jealousies,  the  delusions,  the  concealments,  the  faithless 
ness,  the  desertion,  the  parting !  And  now,  — now  the 
chief  actress  in  this  drama  that  had  touched  him  so 
nearly  lay  buried  in  a  New  England  grave,  with  his  own 
Adele  her  solitary  mourner  ! 

"It  was  your  friend  the  Doctor  who  gave  the  good 
woman  absolution,  I  suppose,"  said  Papiol,  tapping  his 
snuff-box,  and  gathering  a  huge  pinch  between  thumb 
and  finger. 

"  Not  even  that  comfort,  I  suspect,"  said  Maverick. 


314  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  Bah  !  pauvre  femme  !  " 

And  the  philosopher  titillated  his  nostril  until  he 
sneezed  again  and  again. 

"And  the  Doctor,"  continued  Papiol, —  "does  he 
suspect  nothing  ?  " 

"Nothing.  He  has  counselled  me  to  make  what 
amends  I  may  by  marrying  —  you  know  whom." 

"Pardieu!  he  is  a  good  innocent,  that  old  friend  of 
yours  !  " 

"Better  than  you  or  I,  Papiol." 

"  That  goes  without  saying,  my  friend.  And  la  petite, 
—  the  little  bright-eyes,  —  what  of  her?  " 

"She  is  unsuspicious,  but  hints  at  a  little  cloud  that 
overshadows  her  domestic  history,  and  tells  her  lover 
that  it  shah1  be  cleared  up  before  she  will  marry  him,  or 
any  other." 

"  Ta,  ta !  It  's  an  inquisitive  sex,  Maverick !  I  could 
never  quite  understand  how  Julie  should  have  learned 
that  her  little  one  was  stih1  alive,  and  been  able  to  trace 
her  as  she  did.  I  think  the  death  was  set  forth  in  the 
'  Gazette/  —  eh,  Maverick?" 

"  It  certainly  was,"  said  Maverick,  —  "  honestly,  for  the 
child's  good." 

"Ha !  —  honestly,  —  bon  !     I  beg  pardon,  mon  ami" 

And  Papiol  took  snuff  again. 

"Set  forth  in  the  'Gazette,'  en  regie,  and  came  to 
Julie's  knowledge,  as  I  am  sure  ;  and  she  sailed  for  the 
East  with  her  brother,  who  was  a  small  trader  in  Smyrna, 
I  believe,  —  poor  woman  !  To  tell  truth,  Papiol,  had  she 
been  alive,  loving  Adele  as  I  do,  I  believe  I  should  have 


CAF£    DE   D  ORIENT,  315 

been  tempted  to  follow  the  parson's  admonition,  cost 
what  it  might." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  I  should  give  petite  an  honest  name  to 
bear,  —  honest  as  I  could,  at  least ;  and  would  have 
lavished  wealth  upon  her,  as  I  mean  to  do  ;  and  made 
the  last  half  of  my  life  better  than  the  first." 

"Excellent !  most  excellent !  considering  that  the  lady 
is  dead,  pauvrefemme  !  And  now,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
might  go  over  tot  your  country  and  play  the  good  Puri 
tan  by  marrying  Mees  Eliza,  —  hein  ?" 

And  he  called  out  obstreperously,  — 

"  Gar ?on!" 

"  Void,  Messieurs!" 

"  Absinthe,  —  deux  verres." 

And  he  drummed  with  his  fat  fingers  upon  the  edge 
of  the  marble  slab. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  said  Maverick,  with  a  sudden  pallor  on 
his  face,  "  who  is  she  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  Papiol  fastened  upon  the  figure  which 
had  arrested  the  attention  of  Maverick,  —  a  lady,  of,  may 
be,  forty  years,  fashionably  and  gracefully  attired,  with 
olive-brown  complexion,  hair  still  glossy  black,  and  at 
tended  by  a  strange  gentleman  with  a  brusk  and  foreign 
aii\ 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  says  Maverick,  in  a  great  tremor. 
"  Do  the  dead  come  to  haunt  us  ?  " 

"You  are  facetious,  my  friend,"  said  Papiol. 

But  in  the  next  moment  the  lady  opposite  had  raised 
her  eyes,  showing  that  strange  double  look  which  had 


3i6  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

been  so  characteristic  of  Madame  Aries,  and  poor  Papiol 
was  himself  fearfully  distraught. 

"It's  true!  it's  true,  mon  ami!"  he  whispered  his 
friend.  "  It 's  Julie  !  —  elle  m£me,  —  Julie  !  " 

Maverick,  too,  had  met  that  glance,  and  he  trembled 
like  a  leaf.  He  gazed  upon  the  stranger  like  one  who 
sees  a  specter.  And  she  met  his  glance,  boldly  at  the 
first ;  then  the  light  faded  from  her  eyes,  her  head 
drooped,  and  she  fell  in  a  swoon  upon  the  shoulder  of 
her  companion. 

XLIX. 

Adele  leaves  the  Parsonage. 

AT  about  the  date  of  this  interview  which  we  have 
described  as  having  taken  place  beyond  the  seas, 
—  upon  one  of  those  warm  days  of  early  winter,  which, 
even  in  New  England,  sometimes  cheat  one  into  a  feel 
ing  of  spring,  —  Adele  came  strolling  up  the  little  path 
that  led  from  the  parsonage  gate  to  the  door,  twirling 
her  muff  upon  her  hand,  and  thinking  —  thinking  — 

The  chance  villagers,  seeing  her  lithe  figure,  her  well- 
fitting  pelisse,  her  jaunty  hat,  her  blooming  cheeks,  may 
have  said,  "  There  goes  a  fortunate  one  !  "  But  if  the 
thought  of  poor  Adele  took  one  shape  more  than  another, 
as  she  returned  that  day  from  a  visit  to  her  sweet  friend 
Rose,  it  was  this  :  "  How  drearily  unfortunate  I  am  ! " 
And  here  a  little  burst  of  childish  laughter  breaks  on 
her  ear.  AdMe,  turning  to  the  sound,  sees  that  poor 


AD&LE  LEAVES   THE  PARSONAGE.        317 

outcast  woman  who  had  been  the  last  and  most  con 
stant  attendant  upon  Madame  Aries  coming  down  the 
street,  with  her  little  boy  frolicking  beside  her.  Obey 
ing  an  impulse  she  was  in  no  mood  to  resist,  she  turns 
back  to  the  gate  to  greet  them  ;  she  caresses  the  boy ; 
she  has  kindly  words  for  the  mother,  who  could  have 
worshiped  her  for  the  kiss  she  has  given  to  her  outcast 
child. 

"  I  likes  you,"  says  the  sturdy  urchin,  sidling  closer  to 
the  parsonage  gate,  over  which  Adele  leans.  "  You 's 
like  the  French  ooman." 

Whereupon  Adele,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  kindly 
feelings,  can  only  lean  over  and  kiss  the  child  again. 

Miss  Johns,  looking  from  her  chamber,  is  horrified. 
Had  it  been  summer,  she  would  have  lifted  her  window 
and  summoned  Adele.  But  she  never  forgot  —  that  ex 
emplary  woman  —  the  proprieties  of  the  seasons,  any 
more  than  other  proprieties  ;  she  tapped  upon  the  glass 
with  her  thimble,  and  beckoned  the  innocent  offender 
int3  the  parsonage. 

"I  am  astonished,  Adele!"  —  these  were  her  first 
words  ;  and  she  went  on  to  belabor  the  poor  girl  in  fear 
ful  ways,  —  all  the  more  fearful  because  she  spoke  in 
the  calmest  possible  tones. 

Adele  made  no  reply,  —  too  wise  now  for  that ;  but 
she  winced,  and  bit  her  lips  severely,  as  the  irate  spin 
ster  "  gave  Miss  Maverick  to  understand  that  an  inter 
course  which  might  possibly  be  agreeable  to  her  French 
associations  could  never  be  tolerated  at  the  home  of  Dr. 
Johns. " 


3i8  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

No  reply,  as  we  have  said,  —  unless  it  may  have  been 
by  an  impatient  stamp  of  her  little  foot,  which  the  spin 
ster  could  not  perceive. 

But  it  is  the  signal,  in  her  quick,  fiery  nature,  of  a  de 
termination  to  leave  the  parsonage,  if  the  thing  be  pos 
sible.  From,  her  chamber,  where  she  goes  only  to  ar 
range  her  hair  and  to  wipe  off  an  angry  tear  or  two,  she 
walks  straight  into  the  study  of  the  parson. 

"Doctor,"  (the  "  New  Papa"  is  reserved  for  her  ten 
derer  or  playful  moments  now),  "are  you  quite  sure 
that  papa  will  come  for  me  in  the  spring  ?  " 

"  He  writes  me  so,  Adaly.     Why  ?  " 

Adele  seeks  to  control  herself,  but  she  cannot  wholly. 
"  It 's  not  pleasant  for  me  any  longer  here,  New  Papa,  — 
indeed  it  is  not  ;  "  —  and  her  voice  breaks  utterly. 

"But,  Adaly  !  — child  !  "  says  the  Doctor,  closing  his 
book. 

"  It 's  wholly  different  from  what  it  once  was  ;  it 's  irk 
some  to  Miss  Eliza,  —  I  know  it  is  ;  it 's  irksome  to  me. 
I  want  to  leave.  Why  does  n't  papa  come  for  me  at 
once  ?  Why  should  n't  he  ?  What  is  this  mystery,  New 
Papa?  Will  you  not  tell  me  ?  "  —  and  she  comes  toward 
him,  and  lays  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  in  her  old 
winning,  fond  way.  "  Why  may  I  not  know  ?  Do  you 
think  I  am  not  brave  to  bear  whatever  must  some  day 
be  known  ?  What  if  my  poor  mother  be  unworthy  ?  I 
can  love  her  !  I  can  love  her  !  " 

"Ah,  Adaly,"  said  the  parson,  "whatever  may  have 
been  her  unworthiness,  it  can  never  afflict  you  more  ; 
I  believe  that  she  is  in  her  grave,  Adaly." 


ADELE  LEAVES  THE  PARSONAGE.        319 

Adele  sunk  upon  her  knees,  with  her  hands  clasped  as 
if  in  prayer. 

From  the  day  when  Maverick  had  declared  her  un- 
worthiness,  Adele  had  cherished  secretly  the  hope  of 
some  day  meeting  her,  of  winning  her  by  her  loye,  of 
clasping  her  arms  about  her  neck  and  whispering  in  her 
ear,  "  God  is  good,  and  we  are  all  God's  children  ! " 
But  in  her  grave  ! 

The  Doctor  has  not  spoken  without  authority  ;  since 
Maverick,  in  his  reply  to  the  parson's  suggestions  re 
specting  marriage,  has  urged  that  the  party  was  totally 
unfit,  to  a  degree  of  which  the  parson  himself  was  a  wit 
ness  ;  and  by  further  hints  he  had  served  fully  to  iden 
tify,  in  the  mind  of  the  old  gentleman,  poor  Madame 
Aries  with  the  mother  of  Adele.  "  Adaly,  my  child, 
you  are  very  dear  to  me,"  said  he  ;  and  she  stood  by  him 
now,  toying  with  those  gray  locks  of  his,  in  a  caressing 
manner.  "If  it  be  your  wish  to  change  your  home 
for  the  little  time  that  remains,  it  shall  be.  I  have 
your  father's  authority  to  do  so. " 

" Indeed  I  do  wish  it,  New  Papa;"  — and  she 
dropped  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  —  upon  the  forehead 
where  so  few  tender  tokens  of  love  had  ever  fallen,  or 
ever  would  fall. 

The  Doctor  talked  over  the  affair  with  Miss  Eliza, 
who  avowed  herself  as  eager  as  Adele  for  a  change  in 
her  home,  and  suggested  that  Benjamin  should  take 
counsel  with  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Elderkin  ;  it  is  quite 
possible  that  she  shrewdly  anticipated  the  result  of  such 
a  consultation. 


320  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Certain  it  is  that  the  old  Squire  caught  at  the  sugges 
tion  in  a  moment. 

"  The  very  thing,  Doctor  !  I  see  how  it  is.  Miss  Eliza 
is  getting  on  in  years ;  a  little  irritable,  possibly,  — 
though  a  most  excellent  person,  Doctor,  —  most  excel 
lent  !  and  there  being  no  young  people  in  the  house,  it  's. 
a  little  dull  for  Miss  Adele,  —  eh,  Doctor  ?  Grace,  you 
know,  is  not  with  us  this  winter ;  so  your  lodger  shall 
come  straight  to  my  house,  and  she  shall  take  the  room 
of  Grace,  and  Rose  will  be  delighted,  and  Mrs.  Elderkin 
will  be  delighted  ;  and  as  for  Phil,  when  he  happens 
with  us,  —  as  he  does  only  off  and  on  now,  —  he  11  be 
falling  in  love  with  her,  I  have  n't  a  doubt  ;  or,  if  he 
does  n't,  I  shall  be  tempted  to  myself.  She  's  a  fine  girl, 
eh,  Doctor?" 

"She's  a  good  Christian,  I  believe,"  said  the  Doctor 
gravely. 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  Squire;  "and  I 
hope  that  a  bit  of  a  dance  about  Christmas  time,  if  we 
should  fall  into  that  wickedness,  would  n't  harm  her  on 
that  score,  —  eh,  Doctor  ?  " 

"I  should  wish,  Mr.  Elderkin,  that  she  maintain  her 
usual  propriety  of  conduct,  until  she  is  again  in  her 
father's  charge." 

"Well,  well,  Doctor,  you  shall  talk  with  Mrs.  Elder- 
kin  of  that  matter." 

So,  it  is  all  arranged.  Rose  is  overjoyed,  and  can 
hardly  do  enough  to  make  the  new  home  agreeable  to 
Adele  ;  while  the  mistress  of  the  house  —  mild,  and 
cheerful,  and  sunny,  diffusing  content  every  evening 


ADELE  LEAVES    THE   PARSONAGE.        321 

over  the  little  circle  around  her  hearth  —  wins  Adele  to 
a  new  cheer. 

Phil  is  away  at  her  coming ;  but  a  week  after  he 
bursts  into  the  house  on  a  snowy  December  night,  and 
there  is  a  great  stamping  in  the  hall,  and  a  little  grand 
child  of  the  house  pipes  from  the  half-opened  door,  "  It's 
Uncle  Phil !  "  and  there  is  a  loud  smack  upon  the  cheek 
of  Eose,  who  runs  to  give  him.  welcome,  and  a  hearty, 
honest  grapple  with  the  hand  of  the  old  Squire,  and 
then  another  kiss  upon  the  cheek  of  the  old  mother, 
who  meets  him  before  he  is  fairly  in  the  room,  —  a  kiss 
upon  her  cheek,  and  another,  and  another.  Phil  loves 
the  old  lady  with  an  honest  warmth  that  kindles  the 
admiration  of  poor  Adele,  who,  amid  all  this  demon 
stration  of  family  affection,  feels  herself  more  cruelly 
than  ever  a  stranger  in  the  household,  —  a  stranger, 
indeed,  to  the  interior  and  private  joys  of  any  house 
hold. 

Yet  such  enthusiasm  is,  somehow,  contagious ;  and 
wrhen  Phil  meets  Adele  with  a  shake  of  the  hand  and  a 
hearty  greeting,  she  returns  it  with  an  out-spoken, 
homely  warmth,  at  thought  of  which  she  finds  herself 
blushing  a  moment  after.  To  tell  truth.  Phil  is  rather  a 
fine-looking  fellow  at  this  time,  —  strong,  manly,  with  a 
comfortable  assurance  of  manner,  —  a  face  beaming 
with  bonhomie,  cheeks  glowing  with  that  sharp  Decem 
ber  drive,  and  a  wild,  glad  sparkle  in  his  eye,  as  Rose 
whispers  him  that  Adele  has  become  one  of  the  house 
hold.  Phil,  meantime,  dashes  on,  in  his  own  open, 
frank  way,  about  his  drive,  and  the  state  of  the  ice  in 


322  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  river,  and  some  shipments  he  had  made  from  New 
York  to  Porto  Rico,  —  on  capital  terms,  too. 

"And  did  you  see  much  of  Reuben?"  asks  Mrs.  El- 
derkin. 

"  Not  much  ;  "  and  Phil  (glancing  that  way)  sees  that 
Adele  is  studying  her  crimsons  ;  "  but  he  tells  me  he  is 
doing  splendidly  in  some  business  venture  to  the  Medi 
terranean  with  Brindlock  ;  he  could  hardly  talk  of  any 
thing  else.  It's  odd  to  find  him  so  wrapped  up  in 
money-making. " 

"  I  hope  he  '11  not  be  wrapped  up  in  anything  worse," 
said  Mrs.  Elderkin,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Nonsense,  mother ! "  burst  in  the  old  Squire ; 
"Reuben '11  come  out  all  right  yet." 

"He  says  he  means  to  know  all  sides  of  the  world, 
now,"  says  Phil,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  He  's  not  so  bad  as  he  pretends  to  be,  Phil,"  an 
swered  the  Squire.  "  I  knew  the  Major's  hot  ways  ;  so 
did  you,  Grace  (turning  to  the  wife).  It 's  a  boy's  talk. 
There  's  good  blood  in  him." 

And  the  two  girls,  —  yonder,  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth,  —  Adele  and  Rose,  have  given  over  their  little 
earnest  comparison  of  views  about  the  colors,  and  sifc 
stitching,  and  stitching,  and  thinking -  — and  thinking  —  <• 


PHILIP'S   CHANCES.  323 


Philips  Chances. 

PTTTTj  had  at  no  time  given  over  his  thought  of  Adele, 
and  of  the  possibility  of  some  day  winning  her 
for  himself,  though  he  had  been  somewhat  staggered 
by  the  interview  already  described  with  Reuben.  It 
is  doubtful,  even,  if  the  quiet  permission  which  this 
latter  had  granted  (or,  with  an  affectation  of  arrogance, 
had  seemed  to  grant)  had  not  itself  made  him  pause. 
There  are  some  things  which  a  man  never  wants  any 
permission  to  do ;  and  one  of  those  is  —  to  love  a 
woman. 

But  now,  when  on  coming  back,  he  found  her  in  his 
own  home,  —  so  tenderly  cared  for  by  mother  and  by 
sister,  —  so  coy  and  reticent  in  his  presence,  the  old 
fever  burned  again.  It  was  not  now  a  simple  watching 
of  her  figure  upon  the  street  that  told  upon  him ;  but 
her  constant  presence  ;  her  fresh,  fair  face  every  day  at 
table ;  the  tapping  of  her  light  feet  along  the  hall ;  the 
little  n^isical  bursts  of  laughter  (not  Eose's,  —  oh,  no !  ) 
that  came  from  time  to  time  floating  through  the  open 
door  of  his  chamber.  For  an  honest  lover,  propinquity 
is  always  dangerous,  —  most  of  all,  in  one's  own  home. 
The  sister's  caresses  of  the  charmer,  the  mother's  kind 
looks,  the  father's  playful  banter,  and  the  whisk  of  a 
silken  dress  (with  a  new  music  in  it)  along  the  balusters 


324  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

you  have  passed  night  and  morning  for  years,  have  a 
terrible  executive  power. 

In  short,  Adele  had  not  been  a  month  with  the  Elder- 
kins  before  Phil  was  tied  there  by  bonds  he  had  never 
known  the  force  of  before. 

And  how  was  it  with  Adele  ? 

That  strong,  religious  element  in  her,  —  abating  no 
jot  in  its  fervor,  —  which  had  found  a  shock  in  the  case 
of  Reuben,  met  none  with  Philip.  He  had  slipped  into 
the  mother's  belief  and  reverence,  not  by  any  spell  of 
suffering  or  harrowing  convictions,  but  by  a  kind  of  in 
sensible  growth  toward  them,  and  an  easy,  deliberate, 
moderate  living  by  them,  which  more  active  and  incisive 
minds  cannot  comprehend. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  the  calm,  mature  repose 
of  Phil's  manner,  —  never  disturbed  except  when  Adele 
broke  upon  him  suddenly  and  put  him  to  a  momentary 
confusion,  of  which  the  pleasant  fluttering  of  her  own 
heart  gave  account,  —  strange,  if  this  had  not  won  upon 
her  regard,  —  strange,  if  it  had  not  given  hint  of  that 
cool,  masculine  superiority  in  him,  with  which  even 
the  most  ethereal  of  women  like  to  be  impressed.  Nor 
will  it  seem  strange,  if,  by  contrast,  it  made  the  excita 
ble  Eeuben  seem  more  dismally  afloat  and  vagrant. 
Yet  how  could  she  forget  the  passionate  pressure  of  his 
hand,  the  appealing  depth  of  that  gray  eye  of  the  par 
son's  son,  and  the  burning  words  of  his  that  stuck  in 
her  memory  like  thorns  ? 

Phil,  indeed,  might  have  spoken  in  a  way  that  would 
have  driven  the  blood  back  upon  her  heart ;  for  there 


PHILIP'S   CHANCES.  325 

was  a  world  of  passionate  capability  under  his  calm  ex 
terior.  She  dreaded  lest  he  might.  She  shunned  all 
provoking  occasion,  as  a  bird  shuns  the  grasp  of  even 
the  most  tender  hand,  under  whose  clasp  the  pinions 
will  nutter  vainly. 

"\Vken  Rose  said  now,  as  she  was  wont  to  say,  after 
some  generous  deed  of  his,  "Phil  is  a  good,  kind,  noble 
fellow ! "  Adele  affected  not  to  hear,  and  asked  Rose, 
with  a  bustling  air,  if  she  was  "  quite  sure  that  she  had 
the  right  shade  of  brown  "  in  the  worsted  work  they 
were  upon. 

So  the  Christmas  season  caine  and  went.  The  Squire 
cherished  a  traditional  regard  for  its  old  festivities,  not 
only  by  reason  of  a  general  festive  inclination  that  was 
very  strong  in  him,  but  from  a  desire  to  protest  in  a 
quiet  way  against  what  he  called  the  pestilent  religious 
severities  of  a  great  many  of  the  parish,  who  ignored 
the  day  because  it  was  a  high  holiday  in  the  Popish 
Church,  and  in  that  other,  which,  under  the  wing  of 
Episcopacy,  was  following,  in  their  view,  fast  after  the 
Babylonish  traditions.  There  was  Deacon  Tourtelot, 
for  instance,  who  never  failed  on  a  Christmas  morning 
—  if  weather  and  sledding  were  good  —  to  get  up  his 
long  team  (the  restive  two-year-olds  upon  the  neap)  and 
drive  through  the  main  street,  with  a  great  clamor  of 
"  Haw,  Diamond  !  "  and  "  Gee,  Buck  and  Bright !  "  — as 
if  to  insist  upon  the  secular  character  of  the  day.  Even 
the  good  Doctor  pointed  his  Christmas  prayer  with  no 
special  unction.  What,  indeed,  were  anniversaries,  or  a 
yearly  proclamation  of  peace  and  good-will  to  men,  with 


326  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

those  who,  on  every  Sabbath  morning,  saw  the  heavens 
open  above  the  sacred  desk,  and  heard  the  golden  prom 
ises  expounded,  and  the  thunders  of  coming  retribu 
tion  echo  under  the  ceiling  of  the  Tabernacle  ? 

The  Christmas  came  and  went  with  a  great  lighting- 
up  of  the  Elderkin  house  ;  and  there  were  green  gar 
lands  which  Rose  and  Adele  have  plaited  over  the  man 
tel,  and  over  the  stiff  family  portraits  ;  and  good  Phil  — 
in  the  character  of  Santa  Claus  —  has  stuffed  the  stock 
ings  of  all  the  grandchildren,  and  —  in  the  character  of 
the  bashful  lover  —  has  played  like  a  moth  about  the 
blazing  eyes  of  Adele. 

Yet  the  current  of  the  village  gossip  has  it,  that  they 
are  to  marry.  Miss  Eliza,  indeed,  shakes  her  head 
wisely,  and  keeps  her  own  counsel.  But  Dame  Tour- 
telot  reports  to  old  Mistress  Tew,  —  "  Phil  Elderkin  is 
goin'  to  marry  the  French  girl." 

"  Haow  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Tew,  adjusting  her  tin  trumpet. 

"Phil  Elderkin  —  is  —  a-goin'  to  marry  the  French 
girl,"  screams  the  Dame. 

"  Du  tell !     Goin'  to  settle  in  Ashfield  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"  No  !     Where,  then  ?  "  says  Mistress  Tew. 

"I  don't  KNOW,"  shrieks  the  Dame. 

"  Oh  !  "  chimes  Mrs.  Tew  ;  and,  after  reflecting  awhile 
and  smoothing  out  her  cap-strings,  she  says,  —  "  I  've 
heerd  the  French  gurl  keeps  a  cross  in  her  chamber." 

"  She  DOOZ,"  explodes  the  Dame. 

"  I  want  to  know  !  I  wonder  the  Squire  don't  put  a 
stop  to  't," 


CONCERNING   A    COLLEAGUE.  327 

"Doan't  believe  he  would  if  he  COULD,"  says  the  Dame, 
snappishly. 

"  "\Vaiil,  waul !  it's  a  wicked  world  we're  a-livin'  in, 
3Iiss  Tourtelot."  And  she  elevates  her  trumpet,  expec 
tantly. 

LI. 

Concerning  a  Colleague. 

IN  the  days  which  our  narrative  has  now  reached,  the 
Doctor  has  grown  feeble.  His  pace  has  slackened, 
and  there  is  an  occasional  totter  in  his  step.  There  are 
those  among  his  parishioners  who  say  that  his  memory 
is  failing.  On  one  or  two  Sabbaths  of  the  winter  he  has 
preached  sermons  scarce  two  years  old.  There  are  acute 
listeners  who  are  sure  of  it.  And  the  spinster  has  been 
horrified  on  learning  that,  once  or  twice,  the  old  gentle 
man  —  escaping  her  eye  —  has  taken  his  walk  to  the 
post-office,  unwittingly  wearing  his  best  cloak  wrong- 
side  out ;  as  if  —  for  so  good  a  man  —  the  green  baize 
were  not  as  proper  a  covering  as  the  brown  camlet. 

The  parson  is  himself  conscious  of  these  short-com 
ings,  and  speaks  with  resignation  of  the  growing  infirm 
ities  which,  as  he  modestly  hints,  will  compel  him  shortly 
to  give  place  to  some  younger  and  more  zealous  expound 
er  of  the  faith.  His  parochial  visits  grow  more  and 
more  rare.  All  other  failings  could  be  more  easily  par 
doned  than  this  ;  but  in  a  country  parish  like  Ashfield, 
it  was  quite  imperative  that  the  old  chaise  should  keep 


328  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

up  its  familiar  rounds,  and  the  occasional  tea-fights  in 
the  out-lying  houses  be  honored  by  the  gray  head  of 
the  Doctor  or  by  his  evening  benediction.  Two  hour- 
long  sermons  a  week  and  a  Wednesday  evening  discourse 
were  very  well  in  their  way,  but  by  no  means  met  all 
the  requirements  of  those  steadfast  old  ladies  whose  so 
cialities  were  both  exhaustive  and  exacting.  Indeed,  it 
is  doubtful  if  there  do  not  exist  even  now,  in  most  coun 
try  parishes  of  New  England,  a  few  most  excellent  and 
notable  women,  who  delight  in  an  overworked  parson, 
for  the  pleasure  they  take  in  recommending  their  teas, 
and  plasters,  and  nostrums.  The  more  frail  and  attenu 
ated  the  teacher,  the  more  he  takes  hold  upon  their  pity ; 
and  in  losing  the  vigor  of  the  flesh,  he  seems  to  their 
compassionate  eyes  to  grow  into  the  spiritualities  they 
pine  for.  But  he  must  not  give  over  his  visitings  ;  that 
hair-cloth  shirt  of  penance  he  must  wear  to  the  end,  if 
he  would  achieve  saintship. 

Now,  just  at  this  crisis,  it  happens  that  there  is  a  tall, 
thin,  pale  young  man  —  Rev.  Theophilus  Catesby  by 
name,  and  nephew  of  the  late  Deacon  Simmons  (now  un 
happily  deceased)  —  who  has  preached  in  Ashfield  on 
several  occasions  to  the  "  great  acceptance"  of  the  peo 
ple.  Talk  is  imminent  of  naming  him  colleague  to  Dr. 
Johns.  The  matter  is  discussed,  at  first,  (agreeably  to 
custom,)  in  the  sewing-circle  of  the  town.  After  this,  it 
comes  informally  before  the  church  brethren.  The  duty 
to  the  Doctor  and  to  the  parish  is  plain  enough.  The 
practical  question  is,  how  cheaply  can  the  matter  be  ac 
complished  ? 


COXCERNLVG  A    COLLEAGUE.  329 

The  salary  of  the  good  Doctor  has  grown,  by  progres 
sive  increase,  to  be  at  this  date  some  seven  hundred  dol 
lars  a  year,  —  a  very  considerable  stipend  for  a  country 
parish  in  that  day.  It  was  understood  that  the  proposed 
colleague  would  expect  six  hundred.  The  two  joined 
made  a  somewhat  appalling  sum  for  the  people  of  Ash- 
field.  They  tried  to  combat  it  in  a  variety  of  ways,  — 
over  tea-tables  and  barn-yard  gates,  as  well  as  in  their 
formal  conclaves  ;  earnest  for  a  good  thing  in  the  way 
of  preaching,  but  earnest  for  a  good  bargain,  too. 

"  I  say,  Huldy,"  said  the  Deacon,  in  discussion  of  the 
affair  over  his  wife's  fireside,  "  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  the 
Doctor  'ad  put  up  somethin'  handsome  between  the 
French  girl's  boardin',  and  odds  and  ends." 

""What  if  he  ha'n't,  Tourtelot  ?  Miss  John's  got 
property,  and  what's  she  goin'  to  do  with  it,  I  want  to 
know?" 

"  On  this  hint  the  Deacon  spoke,  in  his  next  encounter 
with  the  Squire  upon  the  street,  with  more  boldness. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  Squire,  the  Doctor's  folks  are  pooty 
well  off,  now  ;  and  if  we  make  a  trade  with  the  new 
minister,  so  's  he  '11  take  the  biggest  half  o'  the  hard  work 
of  the  parish,  I  think  the  old  Doctor  'ud  worry  along 
tol'able  well  on  three  or  four  hundred  a  year  ;  heh, 
Squire  ?  " 

"  Well  Deacon,  I  don't  know  about  that  ;  —  don't  know. 
Butcher's  meat  is  always  butcher's  meat,  Deacon."* 

"So  it  is,  Squire  ;  and  not  so  dreadful  high,  nuther. 
I  've  got  a  likely  two-year-old  in  the  yard,  that  '11  dress 
about  a  hundred  to  a  quarter,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  ask 


330  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

more  'n  twenty-five  dollars  ;  know  any  body  that  wants 
such  a  critter,  Squire  ?  " 

These  discussions  come  to  the  ear  of  Reuben,  who 
writes  back  in  a  very  brusk  way  to  the  Doctor  :  "Why 
on  earth,  father,  don't  you  cut  all  connection  with  the 
parish  ?  Don't  let  the  '  minister's  pay '  be  any  hindrance 
to  you,  for  I  am  getting  on  swimmingly  in  my  business 
ventures,  —  thanks  to  Mr.  Brindlock  ;  I  enclose  a  check 
for  two  hundred  dollars,  and  can  send  you  one  of  equal 
amount  every  quarter,  without  feeling  it.  Why  should 
n't  a  man  of  your  years  have  rest  ?  " 

Correspondence  between  the  father  and  son  is  not  in 
frequent  in  these  days  ;  for,  since  Reuben  has  slipped 
away  from  home  control  utterly,  —  being  now  well  past 
one  and  twenty,  — the  Doctor  has  forborne  that  magis 
terial  tone  which,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  it  was  his 
wont  to  employ.  Under  these  conditions,  Reuben  is 
won  into  more  communicativeness,  —  even  upon  those 
religious  topics  which  are  always  prominent  in  the  Doc 
tor's  letters ;  indeed,  it  would  seem  that  the  son  rather 
enjoyed  a  little  logical  fence  with  the  old  gentleman, 
and  a  passing  lunge,  now  and  then,  at  his  severities. 

"I  see  the  honesty  of  your  faith,  father,"  he  writes, 
though  there  seems  a  strained  harshness  in  it  when  I 
think  of  the  complacency  with  which  you  must  needs 
contemplate  the  irremediable  perdition  of  such  hosts  of 
outcasts.  In  Adele,  too,  there  seems  a  beautiful  single 
ness  of  trust ;  but  I  suppose  God  made  the  birds  to  live 
in  the  sky. 

"  You  need  not  fear  my  falling  into  what  you  call  the 


NEWS  FROM  MAVERICK.  331 

Pantheism  of  the  moralists  ;  it  is  every  way  too  cold  for 
my  hot  blood.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  moral  icicles 
with  which  their  doctrine  is  fringed  (and  the  fringe  is 
the  beauty  of  it)  must  needs  melt  under  any  passionate 
human  clasp,  —  such  clasp  as  I  should  want  to  give  (if  I 
gave  any)  to  a  great  hope  for  the  future.  I  should  feel 
more  like  groping  my  way  into  such  hope  by  the  light 
of  the  golden  candlesticks  of  Koine  even.  But  do  not 
be  disturbed,  father  ;  I  fear  I  should  make,  just  now,  no 
better  Papist  than  Presbyterian." 

The  Doctor  reads  such  letters  in  a  maze.  Can  it  in 
deed  be  a  son  of  his  own  loins  who  thus  bandies  lan 
guage  about  the  solemn  truths  of  Christianity  ?  "  How 
shall  I  give  thee  up,  Ephraim  ! " 


UL 

News  from  Maverick. 

IN  the  early  spring  of  1842,  —  we  are  not  quite  sure 
of  the  date,  but  it  was  at  any  rate  shortly  after  the 
establishment  of  the  Reverend  Theophilus  Catesby  at 
Ashfield,  —  the  Doctor  was  in  the  receipt  of  a  new  letter 
from  his  friend  Maverick,  which  set  all  his  old  calcula 
tions  adrift. 

"  I  find,  my  dear  Johns,"  he  writes,  "  that  my  suspicious 
in  regard  to  a  matter  of  which  I  wrote  you  very  fully  in 
my  last  were  wholly  untrue.  How  I  could  have  been 
so  deceived,  I  cannot  even  now  fairly  explain  ;  but  noth- 


332  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ing  is  more  certain,  than  that  the  person  calling  herself 
Madame  Aries  (since  dead,  as  I  learn  from  Adele)  was 
not  the  mother  of  my  child.  My  mistake  in  this  will 
the  more  surprise  you,  when  I  state  that  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  this  personage  (unknown  to  you)  upon  my  visit  to 
America  ;  and  though  it  was  but  a  passing  glimpse,  it 
seemed  to  me  —  though  many  years  had  gone  by  since 
my  last  sight  of  her  —  that  I  could  have  sworn  to  her 
identity.  And  coupling  this  resemblance,  as  I  very  nat 
urally  did,  with  her  devotion  to  my  poor  Adele,  I  could 
form  but  one  conclusion. 

"  The  mother  of  my  child,  however,  still  lives.  I 
have  seen  her.  You  will  commiserate  me  in  advance 
with  the  thought  that  I  have  found  her  among  the  vile 
ones  of  what  you  count  this  vile  land.  But  you  are 
wrong,  my  dear  Johns.  So  far  as  appearance  and  pres 
ent  conduct  go,  no  more  reputable  lady  ever  crossed 
your  own  threshold.  The  meeting  was  accidental,  but 
the  recognition  on  both  sides  absolute  and,  on  the  part 
of  the  lady,  so  emotional  as  to  draw  the  attention  of  the 
habitues  of  the  cafe  where  I  chanced  to  be  dining.  Her 
manner  and  bearing,  indeed,  were  such  as  to  provoke 
me  to  a  renewal  of  our  old  acquaintance,  with  honorable 
intentions,  —  even  independent  of  those  suggestions  of 
duty  to  herself  and  to  Adele  which  you  have  urged. 

"  But  I  have  to  give  you,  my  dear  Johns,  a  new  sur 
prise.  All  overtures  of  my  own  toward  a  renewal  of  ac 
quaintance  have  been  decisively  repulsed.  I  learn  that 
she  has  been  living  for  the  past  fifteen  years  or  more 
with  her  brother,  now  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Smyrna, 


NEWS  FROM  MAVERICK.  333 

and  that  she  has  a  reputation  there  as  a  devote  and  is 
widely  known  for  the  charities  which  her  brother's 
means  place  within  her  reach.  It  would  thus  seem  that 
even  this  French  woman,  contrary  to  your  old  theory, 
is  atoning  for  an  early  sin  by  a  life  of  penance. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Johns,  I  have  to  confess  to  you 
another  deceit  of  mine.  This  woman  —  Julie  Chalet 
when  I  knew  her  of  old,  and  still  wearing  the  name  — 
has  no  knowledge  that  she  has  a  child  now  living.  To 
divert  all  inquiry,  and  to  insure  entire  alienation  of  iny 
little  girl  from  all  French  ties,  I  caused  a  false  mention 
of  the  death  of  Adele  to  be  inserted  in  the  '  Gazette  '  of 
Marseilles.  I  know  you  will  be  very  much  shocked  at 
this,  my  dear  Johns,  and  perhaps  count  it  as  large  a  sin 
as  the  grosser  one  ;  that  I  committed  it  for  the  child's 
sake  will  be  no  excuse  in  your  eye.  I  know. 

"  If  Julie,  the  mother  of  Adele,  knew  to-clay  of  her 
existence,  —  if  I  should  carry  that  information  to  her, 
—  I  am  sure  that  all  her  rigidities  would  be  consumed 
like  flax  in  a  flame.  Shall  I  do  so  ?  I  ask  you  as  one 
who,  I  am  sure,  has  learned  to  love  Adele,  and  who,  I 
hope,  has  not  wholly  given  over  a  friendly  feeling  toward 
me.  Consider  well,  however,  that  the  mother  is  now 
one  of  the  most  rigid  of  Catholics  ;  I  learn  that  she  is  even 
thinking  of  conventual  life.  I  know  her  spirit  and  tem 
per  well  enough  to  be  sure  that,  if  she  were  to  meet  the 
child  again  which  she  believes  lost,  it  would  be  with  an 
impetuosity  of  f eeling  and  a  devotion  that  would  absorb 
every  aim  of  her  life.  This  disclosure  is  the  only  one  by 
•which  I  could  hope  to  win  her  to  any  consideration  of 


334  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

marriage  ;  and  with  a  mother's  rights  and  a  mother's 
love,  would'  she  not  sweep  away  all  that  Protestant  faith 
which  you,  for  so  many  years,  have  been  laboring  to 
build  up  in  the  mind  of  my  child  ?  And  inasmuch  as  I 
am  making  you  my  father  confessor,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you,  my  dear  Johns,  that  no  particular  self-denial  would 
be  involved  in  a  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  Chalet. 
For  myself,  I  am  past  the  age  of  sentiment ;  my  fortune 
is  now  established ;  neither  myself  nor  my  child  can 
want  for  any  luxury.  The  mother,  by  her  present 
associations  and  by  the  propriety  of  her  life,  is  above  all 
suspicion  ;  and  her  air  and  bearing  are  such  as  would  be 
a  passport  to  friendly  association  with  refined  people 
here  or  elsewhere.  You  may  count  this  a  failure  of  Pro 
vidence  to  fix  its  punishment  upon  transgressors  :  I 
count  it  only  one  of  those  accidents  of  life  which  are  all 
the  while  surprising  us. 

"There  was  a  time  when  I  would  have  had  ambition 
to  do  otherwise  ;  but  now,  with  my  love  for  Adele  es 
tablished  by  my  intercourse  with  her  and  by  her  letters, 
I  have  no  other  aim,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  than  her 
welfare.  It  should  be  kept  in  mind,  I  think,  that  the 
marriage  spoken  of,  if  it  ever  take  place,  will  probably 
involve,  sooner  or  later,  a  fuh1  exposure  to  Adele  of  all 
the  circumstances  of  her  birth  and  history.  I  say  this 
will  be  involved,  because  I  am  sure  that  the  warm  affec 
tions  of  Mademoiselle  Chalet  will  never  allow  of  the  con 
cealment  of  her  maternal  relations,  and  that  her  present 
religious  perversity  (if  you  will  excuse  the  word)  will  not 
admit  of  further  deceits.  I  tremble  to  think  of  the  pos- 


XEIVS  FROM  MAVERICK.  335 

sible  consequences  to  Adele,  and  query  very  much  in  my 
own  mind,  if  her  present  blissful  ignorance  be  not  better 
than  reunion  with  a  mother  through  whom  she  must 
learn  of  the  ignominy  of  her  birth.  Of  Adele's  fortitude 
to  bear  such  a  shock,  and  to  maintain  any  elasticity  of 
spirits  under  it,  you  can  judge  better  than  L 

"I  propose  to  delay  action,  my  dear  Johns,  and  of 
course  my  sailing  for  America,  until  I  shall  hear  from 
you." 

Our  readers  can  surely  anticipate  the  tone  of  the  Doc 
tor's  reply.  He  writes  :  — 

"Duty,  Maverick,  is  always  duty.  The  issues  we 
must  leave  in  the  hands  of  Providence.  One  sin  makes 
a  crowd  of  entanglements  ;  it  is  never  weary  of  disguises 
and  deceits.  We  must  come  out  from  them  all,  if  we 
would  aim  at  purity.  From  my  heart's  core  I  shall  feel 
whatever  shock  may  come  to  poor,  innocent  Adele  by 
reason  of  the  light  that  may  be  thrown  upon  her  history ; 
but  if  it  be  a  light  that  flows  from  the  performance  of 
Christian  duty,  I  shah1  never  fear  its  revelations.  If  we 
had  been  always  true,  such  dark  corners  would  never 
have  existed  to  fright  us  with  their  goblins  of  terror.  It 
is  never  too  late,  Maverick,  to  begin  to  be  true. 

"  I  find  a  strange  comfort,  too,  in  what  you  tell  me 
of  that  religious  perversity  of  Mademoiselle  Chalet 
which  so  chafes  you.  I  have  never  ceased  to  believe 
that  most  of  the  Roinish  traditions  are  of  the  Devil  , 
but  with  waning  years  I  have  learned  that  the  Divine 
mysteries  are  beyond  our  comprehension,  and  that 
we  cannot  map  out  His  purposes  by  any  human  chart. 


336  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

The  pure  faitli  of  your  child,  joined  to  her  buoyant 
elasticity,  —  I  freely  confess  it,  —  has  smoothed  away  the 
harshness  of  many  opinions  I  once  held. 

"  Maverick,  do  your  duty.     Leave  the  rest  to  Heaven." 


Lin. 

Clear  but  Dark. 

EUBEN,  meantime,  is  leading  a  dashing  life  in  the 
city.  The  Brindlock  family  have  taken  him  to 
their  arms  again  as  freely  and  heartily  as  if  he  had  never 
entered  the  fold  over  which  the  good  Doctor  exercised 
pastoral  care,  and  as  if  he  had  never  strayed  from  it  again. 

"  I  told  you  'twould  be  all  right,  Mabel,"  said  Mr. 
Brindlock  to  his  wife  ;  and  neither  of  them  ever  rallied 
him  upon  his  bootless  experience  in  that  direction. 

But  the  kindly  aunt  had  not  foreborne  (how  could 
she  ?)  certain  pertinent  inquiries  in  regard  to  the  pretty 
Miss  Maverick,  under  which  Keuben  had  shown  consid 
erable  disposition  to  flinch.  Mrs.  Brindlock  drew  her 
own  conclusions,  but  was  not  greatly  disturbed  by  them. 
Why  should  she  be,  indeed  ?  Reuben,  with  his  present 
most  promising  establishment  in  business,  and  with  a 
face  and  air  that  insured  him  a  cordial  welcome  in  that 
circle  of  wealthy  acquaintances  which  Mrs.  Brindlock 
especially  cultivated,  was  counted  a  bon  parti,  independ 
ent  of  his  position  as  presumptive  heir  to  a  large  share 
of  the  Brindlock  estate. 


CLEAR  BUT  DARK.  337 

Once  or  twice  since  his  leave  of  Ashfield  he  has  aston 
ished  the  good  people  there  by  a  dashing  visit.  It  is 
even  possible  that  he  may  have  entertained  agreeably 
the  fancy  of  dazing  the  eyes  of  both  Rose  and  Adele 
with  the  glitter  of  his  city  distinctions.  But  their  ad 
miration,  if  they  felt  any,  was  not  flatteringly  expressed. 
Adele,  indeed,  was  always  graciously  kind,  and,  seeing 
his  confirmed  godlessness,  tortured  herself  secretly  with 
the  thought  that,  but  for  her  rebuff,  he  might  have 
made  a  better  fight  against  the  bedevilments  of  the 
world,  and  lived  a  truer  and  purer  life.  All  that,  how 
ever,  was  irrevocably  past.  As  for  Rose,  if  there  crept 
into  her  little  prayers  a  touch  of  sentiment  as  she  plead 
ed  for  the  backslidden  son  of  the  minister,  her  prayers 
were  none  the  worse  for  it.  Such  trace  of  sentimental 
color  —  like  the  blush  upon  her  fair  cheek  —  gave  a 
completed  beauty  to  her  appeals. 

Eeuben  saw  that  Phil  was  terribly  in  earnest  in  his 
love,  and  he  fancied,  with  some  twinges,  that  he  saw  in 
dications  on  the  part  of  Adele  of  its  being  not  wholly 
unacceptable.  Rose,  too,  seemed  not  disinclined  to  re 
ceive  the  assiduous  attentions  of  the  young  minister, 
who  had  become  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  Elderkin 
household,  and  who  preached  with  an  unction  and  an 
earnestness  that  touched  her  heart,  and  that  made  her 
sigh  despondingly  over  the  outcast  son  of  the  old  pas 
tor.  Watching  these  things  with  a  look  studiedly  care 
less  and  indifferent,  Reuben  felt  himself  cut  off  more 
than  ever  from  such  charms  or  virtues  as  might  possi 
bly  have  belonged  to  continued  association  with  the 
22 


338  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

companions  of  his  boyhood.  There  were  moments — • 
mostly  drifting  over  him  in  silent  night-hours,  within 
his  old  chamber  at  the  parsonage  —  when  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  made  a  losing  game  of  it.  The  spark 
ling  eyes  of  Adele,  suffused  with  tears,  —  as  in  that 
memorable  interview  of  the  garden,  —  beam  upon  him, 
promising,  as  then,  other  guidance  ;  they  gain  new  bril 
liance,  and  wear  stronger  entreaty,  as  they  shine  loving 
ly  upon  him  from  the  distance  —  growing  greater  and 
greater  —  which  now  lies  between  them.  Her  beauty, 
her  grace,  her  tenderness,  now  that  they  are  utterly  be 
yond  reach,  are  tenfold  enticing ;  and  in  that  other 
sphere  to  which,  in  his  night  reverie,  they  seem  trans 
lated,  the  joyous  face  of  Rose,  like  that  of  an  attendant 
angel,  looks  down  regretfully,  full  of  a  capacity  for  love 
to  which  he  must  be  a  stranger. 

He  is  wakened  by  the  bells  next  morning,  —  a  Sunday 
morning,  may  be.  There  they  go,  —  he  sees  them  from 
the  window,  —  the  two  comely  damsels,  picking  their 
way  through  the  light,  fresh- fallen  snow  of  March.  Go 
ing  possibly  to  teach  the  catechism  ;  he  sneers  at  this 
thought,  for  he  is  awake  now.  Has  the  world  no  richer 
gift  in  store  for  him  ?  That  Sophia  Bowrigg  is  a  great 
fortune,  a  superb  dancer,  a  gorgeous  armful  of  a  woman. 
What  if  they  were  to  join  their  fortunes  and  come  back 
some  day  to  dazzle  these  quiet  townsfolk  with  the  splen 
dor  of  their  life  ?  His  visits  in  Ashfield  grow  shorter  and 
more  rare.  We  shall  not  meet  him  there  again  until  we 
meet  him  for  the  last  time. 

Mr.  Catesby  is  an  "acceptable  preacher."    He  unfolds 


CLEAR   BUT  DARK.  339 

the  orthodox  doctrines  with  more  grace  than  had  belonged 
to  the  manner  of  the  Doctor.  The  old  ladies  befriend 
him  and  pet  him  in  their  kindly  way  ;  and  if  at  times 
his  speculative  humor  (which  he  is  not  wholly  without) 
leads  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  accepted  doctrines, 
he  compounds  the  matter  by  strong  assertion  of  those 
sturdy  generalities  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  ortho 
dox  creed. 

But  his  self-control  is  not  so  apparent  in  his  social  in 
tercourse  ;  and  before  he  has  been  three  months  in  Ash- 
field,  he  has  given  tongue  to  gossip,  and  all  the  old  la 
dies  comment  upon  his  enslavement  to  the  pretty  Kose 
Elderkin.  Young  clergymen  have  this  way  of  falling, 
at  sight,  into  the  toils,  which  is  vastly  refreshing  to  mid 
dle-aged  observers.  An  incident  only  of  his  recreative 
pursuits  in  this  direction  belongs  to  our  narrative. 

Upon  one  of  the  botanical  excursions  of  later  spring 
•which  he  had  inaugurated,  and  to  which  the  maidenly 
modesty  of  Eose  had  suggested  that  Adele  should  make 
a  party,  the  young  Catesby  (who  was  a  native  of  Eastern 
Massachusetts)  had  asked  in  his  naive  manner  after  her 
family  connections.  An  uncle  of  his  had  known  a  Mr. 
Maverick,  who  had  long  been  a  resident  of  Europe. 

"It  may  possibly  be  some  relation  of  yours,  Miss 
Maverick,"  said  the  young  minister. 

"  Do  you  recall  the  first  name  ?  "  said  Rose. 

Mr.  Catesby  hesitated  in  that  interesting  way  in  which 
lovers  are  wont  to  hesitate.  No,  he  did  not  remember  ; 
but  he  was  a  jovial,  generous-hearted  man,  (he  had  heard 
his  uncle  often  describe  him,)  who  must  be  now  some 


iwx 

UNIVERSITY  1 


340  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

fifty  or  sixty  years  old.  —  "Frank  Maverick,  to  be  sure; 
I  have  the  name." 

"Why,  it  is  my  father,"  said  Adele  with  a  swift,  happy 
rush  of  color  to  her  face. 

"  Oh  no,  Miss  Maverick,"  said  the  young  Catesby  with 
a  smile,  "that  is  quite  impossible.  The  gentleman  of 
whom  I  speak,  and  my  uncle  visited  him  only  three  years 
ago,  is  a  confirmed  bnchelor,  and  he  had  rallied  him,  I 
remember,  upon  never  having  married." 

The  color  left  the  cheeks  of  Adele. 

"  Frank,  did  you  say  ?  "  persisted  Rose. 

"Frank  was  the  name,"  said  the  innocent  young 
clergyman  ;  "  and  he  was  a  merchant,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  somewhere  upon  the  Mediterranean." 

"It  's  very  strange,"  said  Rose,  turning  to  Adele. 

And  Adele,  all  her  color  gone,  had  the  fortitude  to  pat 
Rose  lovingly  upon  the  shoulder,  and  to  say,  with  a 
forced  smile,  "  Life  is  very  strange,  Rose." 

But  from  this  time  till  they  reached  home,  —  fortu 
nately  not  far  away,  —  Adele  said  nothing  more.  Rose 
remarked  the  unwonted  pallor  in  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  tired,  Adele,"  said  she  ;  "you  are  so  pale  !  " 

"  Child,"  said  Adele,  tapping  her  again,  in  a  womanly 
way  that  was  strange  to  her  companion,  "  you  have  color 
for  us  both." 

At  this,  her  reserve  of  dignity  and  fortitude  being 
now  well-nigh  spent,  she  rushed  away  to  her  chamber. 
What  wonder  if  she  sought  the  little  crucifix,  sole  me 
mento  of  the  unknown  mother,  and  glued  it  to  her  lips, 
as  she  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  uttered 


CLEAR  BUT  DARK.  341 

such  a  prayer  for  help  and  strength  as  she  had  never 
uttered  before  ? 

"  It  is  true  !  it  is  true  !  I  see  it  now.  The  child  of 
shame  !  The  child  of  shame !  O  my  father,  my  father  ! 
what  wrong  have  you  done  me  ! " 

There  is  not  a  doubt  in  her  mind  where  the  truth  lies. 
In  a  moment  her  thought  has  flashed  over  the  whole 
chain  of  evidence.  The  father's  studied  silence  ;  her 
alienation  from  any  home  of  her  own  ;  the  mysterious 
hints  of  the  Doctor ;  and  the  strange  communication  of 
Reuben,  —  all  come  up  in  stately  array  and  confound 
her  with  the  bitter  truth.-  There  is  a  little  miniature  of 
her  father  which  she  has  kept  among  her  choicest  treas 
ures.  She  seeks  it  now.  Is  it  to  throw  it  away  in  scorn  ? 
No,  no,  no !  Our  affections  are  after  all  not  submissible 
to  strict  moral  regimen.  It  is  with  set  teeth  and  a  hard 
look  in  her  eye  that  she  regards  it  at  first ;  then  her 
eyes  suffuse  with  tears  while  she  looks,  and  she  kisses  it 
passionately  again  and  again. 

"  Can  there  be  some  horrible  mistake  in  all  this  ?  "  she 
asks  herself.  At  the  thought  she  slips  on  hat  and  shawl 
and  glides  noiselessly  down  the  stairs,  (not  for  the  world 
would  she  have  been  interrupted  !)  and  walks  swiftly  away 
to  her  old  home  at  the  parsonage. 

Dame  Tourtelot  meets  her  and  says,  "  Good  evening, 
Miss  Adeel." 

And  Adele,  in  a  voice  so  firm  that  it  does  not  seem  her 
own,  says,  "  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Tourtelot.''  She  won 
ders  greatly  at  her  own  calmness. 


342  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

uv. 

Clearer  and  Darker. 

fT^HE  Doctor  is  alone  in  his  study  when  Adele  comes 
-*-  in  upon  him,  and  she  has  reached  his  chair  and 
dropped  upon  her  knees  beside  him  before  he  has  time 
to  rise. 

"New  Papa,  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me  !  I  know 
the  truth  now,  —  the  mystery,  the  shame  ;  "  —  and  she 
dropped  her  head  upon  his  knees. 

"  Adaly,  Adaly,  my  dear  child ! "  said  the  old  man 
with  a  great  tremor  in  his  voice,  "  what  does  this 
mean  ?  " 

She  was  sobbing,  sobbing. 

"  Adaly,  my  child,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Pray  for  me,  New  Papa  !  "  and  she  lifted  her  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  tender,  appealing  look. 

"  Always,  always,  Adaly  ! " 

"  Tell  me,  New  Papa,  —  tell  me  honestly,  —  is  it  not 
true  that  I  can  call  no  one  mother,  —  that  I  never 
could?" 

The  Doctor  trembled  :  he  would  have  given  ten  years 
of  his  life  to  have  been  able  to  challenge  her  story,  to 
disabuse  her  mind  of  the  belief  which  he  saw  was  fast 
ened  past  all  recall.  "  Adaly,"  said  he,  "  Christ  be 
friended  the  Magdalen,  —  how  much  more  you,  then, 
if  so  be  you  are  the  unoffending  child  of  "  — 


CLEARER  AND  DARKER.  343 

"  I  knew  it  !  I  knew  it ! "  and  she  fell  to  sobbing 
again  upon  the  knee  of  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  wild, 
passionate  way. 

In  such  supreme  moments  the  mind  reaches  its  de 
cisions  with  electrical  rapidity.  Even  as  she  leaned 
there,  her  thought  flashed  upon  that  poor  Madame 
Aries  who  had  so  befriended  her,  —  against  whom  they 
had  cautioned  her,  who  had  shown  such  intense  emo 
tion  at  their  first  meeting,  who  had  summoned  her  at  the 
last,  and  who  had  died  with  that  wailing  cry,  "  Mafille  !  " 
upon  her  lip.  Yes,  yes,  her  mother  indeed,  who  died  in 
her  arms  !  (she  can  never  forget  that  death-clasp.) 

She  hints  as  much  to  the  Doctor,  who,  in  view  of  his 
recent  communication  from  Maverick,  will  not  gainsay 
her. 

When  she  moved  away  at  last,  as  if  for  a  leave-taking, 
silent  and  humiliated,  the  old  man  said  to  her,  "My 
child,  are  you  not  still  my  Adaly?  God  is  no  respecter 
of  persons  ;  His  ministers  should  be  like  Him." 

Whereupon  Adele  came  and  kissed  him  with  a  warmth 
that  reminded  him  of  days  long  past. 

She  rejoiced  in  not  having  encountered  the  gray,  keen 
eyes  of  the  spinster.  She  knew  they  would  read  un 
failingly  the  whole  extent  of  the  revelation  that  had 
dawned  upon  her.  That  the  spinster  herself  knew  the 
truth,  and  had  long  known  it,  she  was  sure  ;  and  she 
recalled  with  a  shudder  the  look  of  those  uncanny  eyes 
upon  the  evening  of  their  little  frolic  at  the  Elderkins'. 
She  dreaded  the  thought  of  ever  meeting  them  again, 
and  still  more  the  thought  of  listening  to  the  stiff,  cold 


344  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

words  of  consolation  which  she  knew  she  would  count  it 
her  duty  to  administer. 

It  was  dusk  when  she  left  the  Doctor's  door ;  he 
would  have  attended,  but  she  begged  to  be  alone.  It 
was  an  April  evening,  the  chilliness  of  the  earth  just 
yielding  to  the  coming  summer  ;  the  frogs  clamorous  in 
all  the  near  pools,  and  filling  the  ah*  with  the  harsh  up 
roar  of  their  voices ;  the  delicate  grass-blades  were  just 
thrusting  their  tips  through  the  brown  web  of  the  old 
year's  growth,  and  in  sunny,  close-trodden  spots  show 
ing  a  mat  of  green  ;  while  the  fleecy  brown  blossoms  of 
the  elm  were  tufting  all  the  spray  of  the  embowering 
trees.  Here  and  there  a  village  loiterer  greeted  her 
kindly.  They  all  knew  Miss  Adele.  "They  will  all 
know  it  to-morrow,"  she  thought,  "  and  then  —  then"  — 

With  a  swift  but  unsteady  step  she  makes  her  way  to 
the  little  grave-yard  ;  she  had  gone  there  often,  and 
there  were  those  who  said  wantonly  that  she  went  to  say 
her  prayers  before  the  little  cross  upon  the  tomb-stone 
she  had  placed  over  the  grave  of  Madame  Aries.  Now 
she  threw  herself  prone  upon  the  little  hillock,  with  a  low, 
sharp  cry  of  distress,  like  that  of  a  wounded  bird,  — 
"  My  mother  !  my  mother  !  " 

Every  word,  every  look  of  tenderness  which  the  dead 
woman  had  lavished,  she  recalls  now  with  a  terrible  dis 
tinctness.  Those  loud,  vague  appeals  of  her  delirium 
come  to  her  recollection  with  a  meaning  in  them  that  is 
only  too  plain  ;  and  then  the  tight,  passionate  clasp, 
when,  strained  to  her  bosom,  relief  came  at  last.  Adele 
lies  there  unconscious  of  the  time,  until  the  night  dews 


CLEARER  AND  DARKER.  345 

warn  her  away  ;  she  staggers  through  the  gate.  Where 
next  ?  She  fancies  they  must  know  it  all  at  the  Elder- 
kins',  —  that  she  has  no  right  there.  Is  she  not  an  es- 
tray  upon  the  world  ?  Shall  she  not  —  as  well  first  as 
last  —  wander  forth,  homeless  as  she  is,  into  the  night  ? 
And  true  to  these  despairing  thoughts,  she  hurries  away 
farther  and  farther  from  the  town.  The  frogs  croak 
monotonously  in  all  the  marshes,  as  if  in  mockery  of  her 
grief.  On  some  near  tree  an  owl  is  hooting,  with  a  voice 
that  is  strangely  and  pitifully  human.  Presently  an 
outlying  farm-house  shows  its  cheery,  hospitable  light 
through  the  window-panes,  and  she  is  tempted  to  short 
en  her  steps  and  steal  a  look  into  the  room  where  the 
family  sits  grouped  around  the  firelight.  No  such  sanc 
tuary  for  her  ever  was  or  ever  can  be.  Even  the  lowing 
of  a  cow  in  the  yard,  and  the  answering  bleat  of  a  calf 
within  the  barn,  seem  to  mock  the  outcast. 

On  she  passes,  scarce  knowing  whither  her  hurrying 
steps  are  bearing  her,  until  at  last  she  spies  a  low  build 
ing  in  the  fields  away  upon  her  right,  which  she  knows. 
It  is  the  home  of  that  outlawed  woman  where  Madame 
Aries  had  died.  Here  at  least  she  will  be  met  with 
sympathy,  even  if  the  truth  were  wholly  known  ;  and 
yet  perhaps  last  of  all  places  would  she  have  it  known 
there.  She  taps  at  the  door  ;  she  has  wandered  out  of 
her  way,  and  asks  for  a  moment's  rest.  The  little  boy 
of  the  house,  when  he  has  made  out  the  visitor  by  a  few 
furtive  peeps  from  behind  the  mother's  chair,  comes  to 
her  fawningly  and  familiarly  ;  and  as  Adele  looks  into 
his  bright,  fearless  eyes,  a  new  courage  seems  to  possess 


346  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

her.  God's  children,  all  of  us  ;  and  He  careth  even  for 
the  sparrows.  She  will  conquer  her  despairing  weak 
ness  ;  she  will  accept  her  cross  and  bear  it  resolutely. 
By  slow  degrees  she  is  won  over  by  the  frolicsome  humor 
of  the  curly-pated  boy,  who  never  once  quits  her  side, 
into  cheerful  prattle  with  him.  And  when  at  last,  fairly 
rested,  she  would  set  off  on  her  return,  the  lone  woman 
says  she  will  see  her  safely  as  far  as  the  village  street ; 
the  boy,  too,  insists  doggedly  upon  attending  them  ; 
and  so,  with  her  hand  tightly  clasped  in  the  hand  of  the 
lad,  Adele  makes  her  way  back  into  the  town.  Along 
the  street  she  passes,  even  under  the  windows  of  the 
parsonage,  with  her  hand  still  locked  in  that  of  the  out 
lawed  boy  ;  and  she  wonders  if  in  broad  day  the  same 
courage  would  be  ineted  to  her  ?  They  only  part  when 
within  sight  of  the  broad  glow  of  light  from  the  Elder- 
kin  windows  ;  and  here  Adele,  taking  out  her  purse, 
counts  out  the  half  of  her  money  and  places  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  boy. 

"We  will  share  and  share  alike,  Arthur,"  said  she. 
"  But  never  tell  who  gave  you  this." 

"But,  Miss  Maverick,  it's  too  much,"  said  the  woman. 

"No,  it's  not,"  said  the  boy,  clutching  it  eagerly. 

With  a  parting  good-night,  Adele  darted  within  the 
gate,  and  opened  softly  the  door,  determined  to  meet 
courageously  whatever  rebuffs  might  be  in  store  for  her. 


CONFIDENCES.  347 

LV. 

Confidences. 

ROSE  has  detailed  the  story  of  the  occurrence,  with 
the  innocent  curiosity  of  girlhood,  to  the  Squire 
and  Mrs.  Elderkin  (Phil  being  just  now  away).  The 
Squire,  as  he  hears  it,  has  passed  a  significant  look 
across  to  Mrs.  Elderkin. 

"  It's  very  queer,  is  n't  it?  "  asked  Rose. 

"  Very,"  said  the  Squire,  who  had  for  some  time  cher 
ished  suspicions  of  certain  awkward  relations  existing 
between  Maverick  and  the  mother  of  Adele,  but  never 
so  decided  as  this  story  would  seem  to  warrant.  "  And 
what  said  Adele  ?  "  continued  he. 

"It  disturbed  her,  I  think,  papa ;  she  did  n't  seem  at 
all  herself." 

"Rose,  my  dear,"  said  the  kindly  old  gentleman, 
"  there  is  some  unlucky  family  difference  between  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Maverick,  and  I  dare  say  the  talk  was  unpleas 
ant  to  Adele  ;  if  I  were  you,  I  would  n't  allude  to  it 
again  ;  don't  mention  it,  please,  Rose." 

If  it  could  be  possible,  good  Mrs.  Elderkin  greeted 
Adele  as  she  came  in  more  warmly  than  ever.  "You 
must  be  careful,  my  dear,  of  these  first  spring  days  of 
oui*s  ;  you  are  late  to-night." 

"Yes,"  says  Adele,  "I  was  gone  longer  than  I 
thought.  I  rambled  off  to  the  churchyard,  and  I  have 
been  at  the  Doctor's." 


348  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Again  the  old  people  exchanged  glances. 

Why  does  she  find  herself  watcning  their  looks  so 
curiously  ?  Yet  there  is  nothing  but  kindness  in  them. 
She  is  glad  Phil  is  not  there. 

The  next  morning  the  Squire  stepped  over  at  an  early 
hour  to  the  parsonage,  and  by  ail  adroit  question  or 
two,  which  the  good  Doctor  had  neither  the  art  nor  the 
disposition  to  evade,  unriddled  the  whole  truth  with  re 
spect  to  the  parentage  of  Adele.  The  Doctor  also  ad 
vised  him  of  the  delusion  of  the  poor  girl  with  respect 
to  Madame  Aries,  and  how  he  had  considered  it  unwise 
to  attempt  any  explanation  until  he  should  hear  further 
from  Mr.  Maverick,  whose  recent  letter  he  counted  it  his 
duty  to  lay  before  Mr.  Elderkin. 

"  It  's  a  sad  business,"  said  he. 

And  the  Doctor,  —  "  The  way  of  the  wicked  is  as  dark 
ness  ;  they  know  not  at  what  they  stumble.'" 

The  Squire  walks  home  in  a  brown  study.  Like  all 
the  rest,  he  has  been  charmed  with  the  liveliness  and 
grace  of  Adele  ;  over  and  over  he  has  said  to  his  boy, 
"How  fares  it,  Phil?  Why,  at  your  age,  my  boy,  I 
should  have  had  her  in  the  toils  long  ago." 

Since  her  domestication  under  his  own  roof,  the 
old  gentleman's  liking  for  her  had  grown  tenfold 
strong  ;  he  had  familiarized  himself  with  the  idea  of 
counting  her  one  of  his  own  flock.  But,  the  child  of  a 
French  — 

"  Well,  well,  we  will  see  what  the  old  lady  may  say," 
reflected  he.  And  he  took  the  first  private  occasion  to 
lay  the  matter  before  Mrs.  Elderkin. 


CONFIDENCES.  549 

"Well,  mother,  the  suspicions  of  last  night  are  all 
true,  —  true  as  a  book." 

"God  help  the  poor  child,  then !  "  said  Madam,  hold 
ing  up  her  hands. 

"  Of  course  He  '11  do  that,  wife.  But  what  say  you 
to  Phil's  marriage,  now  ?  " 

The  old  lady  reflected  a  moment,  lifting  her  hand  to 
smooth  the  hair  upon  her  temple,  as  if  in  aid  of  her 
thought,  then  said,  —  "  Giles,  you  know  the  world 
better  than  I ;  you  know  best  what  may  be  well  for  the 
boy.  I  love  Adele  very  much ;  I  do  not  believe  that  I 
should  love  her  any  less  if  she  were  the  wife  of  PhiL 
But  you  know  best,  Giles  ;  you  must  decide." 

"  There  's  a  good  woman ! "  said  the  Squire  ;  and  he 
stayed  his  pace  up  and  down  the  room  to  lay  his  hand 
approvingly  upon  the  head  of  the  old  lady,  touching  as 
tenderly  those  gray  locks  as  ever  he  had  done  in  earlier 
years  the  ripples  of  golden  brown. 

In  a  few  days  Phil  returns,  —  blithe,  hopeful,  winsome 
as  ever.  He  is  puzzled,  however,  by  the  grave  manner 
of  the  Squire,  when  he  takes  him  aside,  after  the  first 
hearty  greetings,  and  says,  "Phil,  my  lad,  how  fares  it 
with  the  love-matter?  Have  things  come  to  a  crisis, 
—  eh?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  father?"  and  Phil  blushes  like 
a  boy  of  ten. 

"  I  mean  to  ask,  Philip,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
measuredly,  "  if  you  have  made  any  positive  declaration 
to  Miss  Maverick." 

"Not  yet,"  said  Phil,  with  a  modest  frankness. 


350  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"Very  good,  my  son,  very  good.  And  now,  Phil,  I 
would  wait  a  little,  —  take  time  for  reflection  ;  don't  do 
any  thing  rashly.  It's  an  important  step  to  take." 

"But,  father,"  says  Phil,  puzzled  by  the  old  gentle 
man's  manner,  "  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"Philip,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  seriousness  that 
seemed  almost  comical  by  its  excess,  "would  you  really 
marry  Adele  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  if  I  could,"  said  Phil. 

"Tut,  tut,  Phil!  It's  the  old  hot  blood  in  him  ! " 
(He  says  this,  as  if  to  himself.)  "Philip,  I  would  n't 
hurry  the  matter,  my  boy." 

And  thereupon  he  gives  him  in  his  way  a  story  of  the 
revelations  of  the  last  few  days. 

At  the  first,  Phil  is  disposed  to  an  indignant  denial, 
as  if  by  no  possibility  any  indignity  could  attach  to  the 
name  or  associations  of  Adele.  But  in  the  whirl  of  his 
feeling  he  remembered  that  interview  with  Reuben,  and 
his  boast  that  Phil  could  not  affront  the  conventionalities 
of  the  world.  It  confirmed  the  truth  to  him  in  a  mo 
ment.  Reuben  then  had  known  the  whole,  and  had  been 
disinterestedly  generous.  Should  he  be  any  less  so  ? 

"Well,  father,"  said  Phil,  after  a  minute  or  two  of 
silence,  "I  don't  think  the  story  changes  my  mind  one 
whit.  I  would  marry  her  to-morrow,  if  I  could,"  and 
he  looked  the  Squire  fairly  and  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Gad,  boy,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "you  must  love 
her  as  I  loved  your  mother  !  " 

"I  hope  I  do,"  said  Phil,  —  "  that  is,  if  I  win  her.  I 
don't  think  she  's  to  be  had  for  the  asking." 


CONFIDENCES.  351 

"Aha  !  the  pinch  lies  there,  eh  ?  "  said  the  Squire,  and 
he  said  it  in  better  humor  than  he  would  have  said  it 
ten  days  before.  "  What  's  the  trouble,  Philip  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  she  always  had  a  tenderness  for 
Reuben  ;  I  think  she  loves  him  now  in  her  heart." 

"  So,  so  !  The  wind  lies  there,  eh  ?  WeU,  let  it  bide, 
my  boy  ;  let  it  bide  awhile." 

And  there  the  discourse  of  the  Squire  ended. 

Meantime,  however,  Rose  and  Adele  are  having  a 
little  private  interview  above  stairs,  which  in  its  subject- 
matter  is  not  wholly  unrelated  to  the  same  theme. 

"  Rose,"  Adele  had  said,  as  she  fondled  her  in  her  win 
ning  way,  "your  brother  Phil  has  been  very  kind  to  me." 

"He  always  meant  to  be,"  said  Rose,  with  a  charming 
glow  upon  her  face. 

"  He  always  has  been,"  said  Adele  ;  "  but,  dear  Rose, 
I  know  I  can  talk  as  plainly  to  you  as  to  another  self 
almost." 

"  You  can,  —  you  can,  Ady,"  said  she. 

"I  have  thought,"  continued  Adele,  "though  I  know 
it  is  very  unmaidenly  in  me  to  say  it,  that  Phil  was  dis 
posed  sometimes  to  talk  even  more  warmly  than  he  has 
ever  talked,  and  to  ask  me  to  be  a  nearer  friend  to  him 
even  than  you,  deal*  Rose.  May  be  it  is  only  my  own 
vanity  that  leads  me  sometimes  to  suspect  this." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  may  be  time  !  "  burst  forth  Rose. 

"  I  hope  »o£,"  said  Adele,  with  a  voice  so  gravely  ear 
nest  that  Rose  shuddered. 

"  O  Ady,  you  don't  mean  it !  you  who  are  so  good,  so 
kind  !  Phil's  heart  will  break." 


352  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  I  don't  think  that,"  said  Adele,  with  a  faint  hard 
smile,  in  which  her  womanly  vanity  struggled  with  her 
resolution.  "  And  whatever  might  have  been,  that 
which  I  have  hinted  at  must  not  be  now,  dear  Kose. 
You  will  know  some  day  why  —  why  it  would  be  un 
grateful  in  me  to  determine  otherwise.  Promise  me, 
darling,  that  you  will  discourage  any  inclination  toward 
it,  wherever  you  can.  Promise  me,  dear  Rose  !  " 

"Do  you  really,  truly  mean  it  ?  "  said  the  other,  with 
a  disappointment  she  but  poorly  concealed. 

'•  With  all  my  heart,  I  do,"  said  Adele. 

And  Eose  promised,  while  she  threw  herself  upon  the 
neck  of  Adele  and  said,  "  I  am  so  sorry  !  It  will  be  such 
a  blow  to  poor  Phil ! " 

After  this,  things  went  on  very  much  in  their  old  way. 
To  the  great  relief  of  Adele  there  was  no  explosive  vil 
lage  demonstration  of  the  news  which  had  come  home 
so  cruelly  to  herself.  The  Doctor  had  given  an  admoni 
tion  to  tSe  young  minister,  and  the  old  Squire  had  told 
him,  in  a  pointed  and  confidential  wa}%  that  he  had  heard 
of  his  inquiries  and  assertions  with  respect  to  Mr.  Maver 
ick,  and  begged  to  hint  that  the  relations  between  the 
father  and  mother  of  Adele  were  not  of  the  happiest,  and 
it  was  quite  possible  that  Mr.  Maverick  had  assumed  lat 
terly  the  name  of  a  bachelor  ;  it  was  not,  however,  a  very 
profitable  subject  of  speculation  or  of  gossip,  and  if  he 
valued  the  favor  of  the  young  ladies  he  would  forbear  all 
allusion  to  it.  A  suggestion  which  Mr.  Catesby  was  not 
slow  to  accept  religiously,  and  scrupulously  to  bear  in 
mind. 


CONFIDENCES.  353 

Phil  was  as  hot  a  lover  as  ever,  though  for  a  time  a 
little  more  distant :  and  the  poor  fellow  remarked  a  new 
timidity  and  reserve  about  Adele,  which,  so  far  from 
abating,  only  fed  the  flame  ;  and  there  is  no  knowing  to 
what  reach  it  might  have  blazed  out,  if  a  trifling  little 
circumstance  had  not  paralyzed  his  zeal. 

From  time  to  time,  Phil  had  been  used  to  bring  home 
a  rare  flower  or  two  as  a  gift  for  Adele,  which  Rose  had 
always  lovingly  arranged  in  some  coquettish  fashion, 
either  upon  the  bosom  or  in  the  hair  of  Adele  ;  but  a 
new  and  late  gift  of  this  kind  —  a  little  tuft  of  the  trail 
ing  arbutus  which  he  has  clambered  over  miles  of  wood 
land  to  secure  —  is  not  worn  by  Adele,  but  by  Hose, 
who  glances  into  the  astounded  face  of  Phil  with  a 
pretty,  demure  look  of  penitence. 

"I  say,  Rose,"  says  he,  seizing  his  chance  for  a  private 
word,  —  "  that  's  not  for  you." 

"  I  know  it,  Phil;  Adele  gave  it  to  me." 

"And  that  's  her  favorite  flower." 

"  Yes,  Phil,"  and  there  is  a  shake  in  her  voice  now.  "  I 
think  she 's  grown  tired  of  such  gifts,  Phil ;  " — whereat 
she  glances  keenly  and  pitifully  at  him. 

"  Truly,  Rose  ?  "  says  Phil,  with  the  color  on  a  sudden 
quitting  his  cheeks. 

"  Truly,  —  truly,  Phil,"  —  and  in  spite  of  herself  the 
pretty  hazel  eyes  are  brimming  full,  and,  under  pretence 
of  some  household  duty,  she  dashes  away.  For  a  moment 
Phil  stands  confounded.  Then,  through  his  set  teeth,  he 
growls,  "I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  known  it !  " 
23 


354  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

LVI. 

Adele — Reuben — Maverick. 

AD^LE  sees  clearly  now  the  full  burden  of  Reuben's 
proposal  to  cherish  and  guard  her  against  what 
ever  indignities  might  threaten  ;  she  sees  more  clearly 
than  ever  the  rich,  impulsive  generosity  of  his  nature  re 
flected,  and  it  disturbs  her  grievously  to  think  that  she 
had  met  it  only  with  reproach.  The  thought  of  the  mad, 
wild,  godless  career  upon  which  he  may  have  entered, 
and  of  which  the  village  gossips  are  full,  is  hardly  more 
afflictive  to  her  than  her  recollection  of  that  frank,  self- 
sacrificing  generosity,  so  ignobly  requited.  She  longs 
in  her  heart  to  clear  the  debt,  —  to  tell  him  what  grate 
ful  sense  she  has  of  his  intended  kindness.  But  how  ? 
Should  she,  —  being  what  she  is,  —  even  by  a  wrord, 
seem  to  invite  a  return  of  that  devotion  which  may  be 
was  but  the  passion  of  an  hour,  and  which  it  were  fatal 
to  renew  ?  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  so  brave  a  generosity 
shall  not  be  wholly  unacknowledged.  She  writes  :  — 

"  Eeuben,  I  know  now  the  full  weight  of  the  favor 
you  promised  to  bestow  upon  me  when  I  so  blindly  re 
proached  you  with  intrusion  upon  my  private  griefs. 
Forgive  me,  Reuben  !  I  thank  you  now,  late  as  it  is, 
with  my  whole  heart.  It  is  needless  to  tell  you  how  I 
came  to  know  what,  perhaps,  I  had  better  never  have 
known,  but  which  must  always  have  overhung  me  as  a 


ADELE—RE  U BEN— MA  VERICK.  3  5  5 

dark  cloud.  This  knowledge,  clear  Reuben,  which  sepa 
rates  us  so  surely  and  so  widely,  takes  away  the  embar 
rassment  I  might  have  felt  in  telling  you  of  my  lasting 
gratitude,  and  (if  as  a  sister  I  may  say  it)  my  love.  If 
your  kind  heart  could  so  overflow  with  pity  then,  you 
will  surely  pity  me  the  more  now  ;  yet  not  too  much, 
Reuben,  for  my  pride  is  as  strong  as  ever.  The  world 
was  made  for  me,  as  much  as  it  was  made  for  others  ; 
and  if  I  bear  its  blight,  I  will  find  some  flowers  yet  to 
cherish.  I  do  not  count  it  altogether  so  grim  and  odious 
a  world,  —  even  under  the  broken  light  which  shines 
upon  it  for  me,  —  as  in  your  last  visits  you  seemed  dis 
posed  to  reckon  it 

"How  is  it  with  the  cloud  that  lay  in  those  times 
upon  you  ?  Is  there  any  light  ?  Ah,  Reuben,  when  I 
recall  those  days  in  which  long  ago  your  faith  in  some 
thing  better  beyond  this  world  than  lies  in  it  seemed  to 
be  so  much  stronger  and  firmer  than  mine,  and  when 
your  trust  was  so  confident  as  to  make  mine  stronger,  it 
seems  like  a  strange  dream  to  me,  —  all  the  more  when 
now  you,  who  should  reason  more  justly  than  I,  believe 
in  'nothing,'  (was  not  that  your  last  word ?)  —  and  yet, 
dear  Reuben,  I  cling,  —  I  cling.  Do  you  remember  the 
old  hymn  I  sung  in  those  days  :  — 

*  Ingemisco  tanquam  reus.' 

Even  your  good  father,  who  was  so  troubled  by  the 
Romish  hymns,  said  it  must  have  been  written  by  9- 
good  man." 

Much  more  she  writes  in  this  vein,  but  returns  ever 


356  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

and  again  to  that  noble  generosity  of  his,  —  her  delicacy 
struggling  throughout  with  her  tender  gratitude,  — yet 
she  fails  not  to  show  a  deep,  earnest  undercurrent  of  af 
fection,  which  surely  might  develop  under  sympathy 
into  a  very  fever  of  love.  Will  it  not  touch  the  heart  of 
Reuben  ?  Will  it  not  divert  him  from  the  trail  where  he 
wanders  blindly  ? 

God  send  that  the  letter  may  reach  him  safely. 

For  a  long  time  Adele  has  not  written  to  Eeuben,  and 
it  occurs  to  her,  as  she  strolls  away  toward  the  village 
post,  that  to  mail  it  herself  may  possibly  provoke  new 
town  gossip.  In  this  perplexity  she  presently  encoun 
ters  her  boy  friend,  Arthur,  who  for  a  handful  of  pen 
nies,  and  under  an  injunction  of  secrecy,  cheerfully  un 
dertakes  the  duty.  To  the  house  of  the  lad's  mother, 
far  away  as  it  was,  Adele  had  wandered  frequently  of 
late,  and  had  borne  away  from  time  to  time  some  tri 
fling  memento  of  the  dead  one  whose  memory  so  en 
deared  the  spot.  It  happens  that  she  continues  her 
stroll  thither  on  this  occasion  ;  and  the  poor  woman,  to 
ward  whom  Adele's  charities  have  flowed  with  a  profu 
sion  that  has  astounded  the  Doctor,  repays  some  new 
gift  by  placing  in  her  hands  a  little  embroidered  ker 
chief,  "too  fine  for  such  as  she,"  which  had  belonged  to 
Madame  Aries.  A  flimsy  bit  of  muslin  daintily  embroid 
ered  ;  but  there  is  a  name  stitched  upon  its  corner,  for 
which  Adele  treasures  it  past  all  reckoning,  —  the  name 
of  Julie  Chalet. 

It  was  as  if  the  dead  one  had  suddenly  come  back  and 
whispered  it  in  her  ear,  —  Julie  Chalet.  The  spring 


AD&LE—REUBEN-^UA  I  'ERICK.  357 

birds  sung  the  name  in  chorus  as  she  walked  home  ;  and 
on  the  grave-stone,  under  the  cross,  she  seemed  to  see 
it  cut  upon  the  marble,  — Julie  Chalet. 

Adele  has  written  to  her  father,  of  course,  in  those 
days  when  the  first  shock  of  the  new  revelation  had 
passed.  How  could  she  do  otherwise  ? 

'•'  I  think  I  now  understand,"  she  writes,  "the  reason 
of  your  long  absence  from  me.  Whatever  other  griefs  I 
bear,  I  will  not  believe  that  it  has  been  from  lack  of  af 
fection  for  me.  I  recall  that  day,  dear  papa,  when,  with 
my  head  lying  on  your  bosom,  you  said  to  me,  '  She  is 
unworthy  ;  I  will  love  you  for  both.'  You  must !  But 
was  she,  papa,  so  utterly  unworthy  ?  I  think  I  have 
known  her  ;  nay,  I  feel  almost  sure,  —  sure  that  these 
arms  held  her  in  the  moment  when  she  breathed  adieu 
to  the  world.  If  ever  bad,  I  am  sure  that  she  must  have 
grown  into  goodness.  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  think  other 
wise.  I  can  tell  you  so  many  of  her  kind  deeds  as  will 
take  away  your  condemnation.  In  this  hope  I  live,  dear 
papa. 

"I  have  found  her  true  name  too,  at  last, — Julie 
Chalet,  —  is  it  not  so  ?  I  wonder  with  what  feeling  you 
will  read  it ;  will  it  be  with  awakened  fondness  ?  will 
it  be  with  loathing  ?  I  tremble  while  I  ask.  You  shall 
go  with  me  (will  you  not?)  to  her  grave;  and  there  a 
kind  Heaven  will  put  in  our  hearts  what  memories  are 
best. 

"  I  know  now  the  secret  of  your  caution  in  respect  to 
Reuben  ;  you  have  been  unwilling  that  your  child  should 
bring  shame  to  the  household  of  a  friend  !  Trust  to  me, 


358  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

—  trust  to  me,  papa.  Yet  I  have  never  told  you  —  what 
I  have  since  learned — of  the  unselfish  devotion  of  Reu 
ben,  which  declared  itself  when  he  knew  all,  —  all.  Would 
I  not  be  almost  tempted  to  thank  him  with  —  myself  ? 
Yet,  if  I  have  written  him  with  an  almost  unrnaidenly 
warmth,  I  have  called  to  his  mind  the  great  gulf  that 
must  lie  between  us. 

"  Is  the  old  godmother,  of  whom  you  used  to  speak, 
still  alive  ?  It  seems  that  I  should  love  to  hang  about 
her  neck  in  memory  of  days  gone  ;  it  seems  that  I  should 
love  the  warm  sky  under  which  I  was  born,  —  I  am  sure 
I  should  love  the  olive-orchards,  and  the  vines,  and  the 
light  upon  the  sea.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  living  in  chains 
now.  When,  when  will  you  come  to  break  them,  and 
set  me  free  ?  " 

In  those  days  of  May,  when  the  leaflets  were  unfolding, 
and  when  the  downy  bluebells  were  lifting  their  clus 
tered  blossoms  filled  with  a  mysterious  fragrance,  like 
the  breath  of  young  babes,  Adele  loved  to  linger  in  the 
study  of  the  parsonage ;  more  than  ever  the  good 
Doctor  seemed  a  "  New  Papa,"  —  more  than  ever  his  eye 
dwelt  upon  her  with  a  parental  smile.  It  was  not  that 
she  loved  Rose  less,  that  she  lingered  here  so  long ;  but 
she  could  not  shake  off  the  conviction  that  some  day 
soon  Rose  might  shrink  from  her. 

The  Doctor  was  always  gravely  kind.  "  Have  cour 
age,  Adaly,  have  courage  ! "  he  was  wont  to  say  ;  "  God 
orders  all  things  right." 

And  somehow,  when  she  hears  him  say  it,  she  believes 
it  more  than  ever. 


MAVERICK  IS  MARRIED.  359 

Ten  days,  a  fortnight,  and  a  month  pass,  and  there  is 
no  acknowledgment  from  Reuben  of  her  grateful  letter. 
He  does  not  count  it  worth  his  while,  apparently,  to 
break  his  long  silence  ;  or,  possibly,  he  is  too  much  en 
grossed  with  livelier  interests  to  give  a  thought  to  this 
episode  of  his  old  life  in  Ashfield.  Adele  is  disturbed 
by  it ;  but  the  very  disturbance  gives  her  new  courage 
to  combat  faithfully  the  difficulties  of  her  position. 
"  One  cheering  word  I  would  have  thought  he  might 
have  given  me,"  said  she. 

The  appeal  to  her  father,  too,  has  no  answer.  Be 
fore  it  reaches  its  destination,  Maverick  has  taken  ship 
for  America  ;  and,  singularly  enough,  it  is  fated  that  the 
letter  of  Adele  should  be  first  opened  and  read  —  by  her 
mother. 


LVIL 

Maverick  is  Married. 

SOME     time   in     mid-May   of    this    year    Maverick 
writes  :  — 

"My  dear  Johns,  —  I  shall  again  greet  you,  God  will 
ing,  in  your  own  home,  some  forty  days  hence,  and  I 
shall  come  as  a  repentant  Benedick  ;  for  I  now  wear  the 
dignities  of  a  married  man.  Your  kind  letter  counted 
for  a  great  deal  toward  my  determination  ;  but  I  will 
not  affect  to  conceal  from  you,  that  my  tender  interest 
in  the  f uture  of  Adele  counted  for  a  great  deal  more. 
As  I  had  supposed,  the  communication  to  Julie  (which  I 


360  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

effected  through  her  brother)  that  her  child  was  still 
living,  and  living  motherless,  woke  all  the  tenderness  of 
her  nature.  I  cannot  say  that  the  sudden  change  in  her 
inclinations  was  any  way  flattering  to  me  ;  but  knowing 
her  recent  religious  austerities,  I  was  prepared  for  this. 
I  shall  not  undertake  to  describe  to  you  our  first  inter 
view,  which  I  can  never  forget.  It  belongs  to  those 
heart-secrets  which  cannot  be  spoken  of  ;  but  this  much 
I  may  tell  you,  —  that,  if  there  was  no  kindling  of  the 
old  and  wayward  love,  there  grew  out  of  it  a  respect  for 
her  present  severity  and  elevation  of  character  that  I 
had  never  anticipated.  At  our  age,  indeed,  (though, 
when  I  think  of  it,  I  must  be  many  years  your  junior,) 
a  respect  for  womanly  character  most  legitimately  takes 
the  place  of  that  disorderly  sentiment  which .  twenty 
years  ago  blazed  out  in  passion. 

"  We  have  been  married  according  to  the  rites  of  the 
Romish  Church.  If  I  had  proposed  other  ceremony, 
more  agreeable  to  your  views,  I  am  confident  that  she 
would  not  have  listened  to  me.  She  is  wrapped  as 
steadfastly  in  her  creed  as  ever  you  in  yours.  To  do 
otherwise  in  so  sacred  a  matter  —  and  with  her  it  wore 
solely  that  aspect  —  than  as  her  Church  commands, 
would  have  been  to  do  foully  and  vainly.  The  only 
trace  of  worldliness  which  I  see  in  her  is  her  intense 
yearning  toward  our  dear  Adele,  and  her  passionate 
longing  to  clasp  the  child  once  more  to  her  heart.  Nor 
will  I  conceal  from  you  that  she  hopes,  with  all  the  fer 
vor  of  a  mother's  hope,  to  wean  her  from  what  she  counts 
the  heretical  opinions  under  which  she  has  been  reared. 


MAVERICK  IS  MARRIED.  361 

"  You  will  naturally  ask,  my  dear  Johns,  why  I  do 
not  combat  this  ;  but  I  am  too  old  and  too  far  spent  for 
a  fight  about  creeds.  I  should  have  made  a  lame  fight 
on  that  score  at  any  clay  ;  but  now  my  main  concern,  it 
would  seem,  should  be  to  look  out  personally  for  the 
creed  which  has  most  of  mercy  in  it.  If  I  seem  to  speak 
triflingly,  my  dear  Johns,  I  pray  you  excuse  me  ;  it  is 
only  my  business  way  of  stating  the  actual  facts  in  the 
case.  As  for  Madame  Maverick,  I  am  sure  you  will  find 
no  trifling  in  her  (if  you  ever  meet  her) ;  she  is  terribly 
in  earnest.  Yet  I  should  do  wrong  if  I  were  to  represent 
her  as  always  severe,  even  upon  such  a  theme  ;  there 
certainly  belongs  to  her  a  tender,  appealing  manner 
(reminding  of  Adele  in  a  way  that  brings  tears  to  my 
eyes)  but  it  is  always  bounded  by  allegiance  to  her  sworn 
faith.  My  home  near  to  Marseilles,  which  has  been  but 
a  gypsy  home  for  so  many  years,  she  has  taken  under  her 
hand,  and  by  its  new  appointments  and  order  has  con 
victed  me  of  the  losses  I  have  felt  so  long.  True,  you 
might  object  to  the  oratoire  ;  but  in  all  else  I  am  confi 
dent  you  would  approve,  and  in  all  else  felicitate  Adele. 

"Madame  Maverick  will  not  sail  with  me  for  America  ; 
although  the  marriage,  under  French  law,  may  have  ad 
mitted  Adele  to  all  rights  and  even  social  immunities, 
yet  I  have  represented  that  another  law  and  custom  rule 
with  you.  Whatever  opprobrium  might  attach  to  the 
mother,  Julie,  with  her  exalted  religious  sentiment, 
would  not  weigh  for  a  moment  ;  but  as  regards  Adele, 
she  manifests  a  strange  tenderness.  But  while  she  as- 
sents — with  some  reluctance,  I  must  admit  —  to  this 


362  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

plan  of  deferring  her  meeting  with  Adele,  she  insists  in 
a  way  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  combat,  upon  her  child's 
speedy  return.  That  her  passionate  love  will  insure  en 
tire  devotion  on  the  part  of  Adele,  I  cannot  doubt.  And 
how  the  anti-Romish  faith  instilled  in  the  dear  girl  by 
your  teachings,  as  well  as  by  her  associations,  may  with 
stand  the  earnest  attack  of  Madame  Maverick,  I  cannot 
tell.  I  have  a  fear  it  may  lead  to  some  dismal  compli 
cations.  You  know  what  the  earnestness  of  your  own 
faith  is  ;  but  I  don't  think  you  yet  know  the  earnestness 
of  an  opposing  faith,  with  a  Frenchwoman  to  back  it. 
Even  as  I  write,  she  comes  to  cast  a  glance  at  my  work, 
and  says  'Monsieur  Maverick,'  (she  called  me  Frank 
once, )  '  what  are  you  saying  there  to  the  heretical  Doc 
tor?' 

"  Whereupon  I  translate  for  her  ear  a  sentence  or  two. 
'  Tell  him,'  says  she,  '  that  I  thank  him  for  his  kindness  ; 
tell  him  besides,  that  I  can  in  no  way  better  atone  for 
the  guiltiness  of  the  past,  than  by  bringing  back  this 
wandering  lamb  into  the  true  fold.  Only  when  we 
kneel  before  the  same  altar,  her  hand  in  mine,  can  I  feel 
that  she  is  truly  my  child.' 

"  I  fear  greatly  this  zeal  may  prove  infectious. 

"And  now,  my  dear  Johns,  in  regard  to  the  revela 
tion  to  Adele  of  what  is  written  here,  I  must  throw  my 
self  on  your  charity.  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  the  story 
as  kindly  as  you  can.  See  to  it,  I  pray,  that  my  name 
don't  become  a  bugbear  in  the  village.  I  have  pretty 
broad  shoulders,  and  could  bear  it,  if  I  only  were  to  be 
sufferer  ;  but  I  am  sure  't  would  react  fearfully  on  the 


MA  VERICK  IS  MARRIED.  363 

sensibilities  of  poor  Adele.  Do  me  this  favor,  Johns, 
and  you  will  find  me  a  more  willing  listener  in  what  is 
to  come.  I  can't  promise,  indeed,  to  accept  all  your 
dogmas  ;  there  is  a  thick  crust  of  the  world  on  me,  and 
I  doubt  if  you  could  force  them  through  it ;  but,  for 
Adele's  sake,  I  think  I  could  become  a  very  orderly  and 
presentable  person,  even  for  a  New  England  meeting 
house.  I  will  make  a  beginning  now  by  turning  over 
the  little  property  which  you  hold  for  Adele,  in  trust, 
for  disbursement  in  your  parish  charities.  The  dear 
child  won't  need  it,  and  the  parish  may." 

The  Doctor  was  happy  to  be  relieved  of  the  worst 
part  of  the  revelation  ;  but  he  had  yet  to  communicate 
the  fact  that  the  mother  was  still  alive,  and  (what  was  to 
him  worst  of  all)  that  she  was  irnbruted  with  the  delu 
sions  of  the  Romish  Church.  He  chose  his  hour,  and, 
meeting  her  upon  the  village  street,  asked  her  into  his 
study. 

"Adaly,  your  father  is  coming.  He  will  be  here 
within  a  month." 

"  At  last !  at  last !  "  said  she,  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

'•'But,  Adaly,"  continued  he,  with  great  gravity,  "I 
have  perhaps  led  you  into  error.  Your  mother,  Adaly, 
—  your  mother  is  still  living." 

"  Living  !  "  and  an  expression  almost  of  radiance  shot 
over  the  fair  face.  But  in  an  instant  it  was  gone.  "Was 
not  the  poor  lady  she  had  so  religiously  mourned  over 
her  mother  ?  That  death  embrace  and  the  tomb  were, 
then,  only  solemn  mockeries  !  With  a  frightful  alert 
ness  her  thought  ran  to  them,  —  weighed  them.  "  Ne\v 


364  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

Papa,''  said  she,  approaching  him  with  a  gravity  that 
matched  his  own,  "is  this  some  new  delusion?  Is  it 
true  ?  Has  he  written  me  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  written  you,  my  child  ;  but  I  have  a  let 
ter,  informing  me  of  his  marriage,  and  begging  me  to 
make  the  revelation  to  you  as  kindly  as  I  might." 

"Marriage!  Marriage  to  whom?"  says  Adele,  her 
eyes  flashing  fire,  and  her  lips  showing  a  tempest  of 
scarce  controllable  feeling. 

"  Marriage  to  your  mother,  Adaly.  He  would  be 
just  at  last." 

"  O  my  God  !  "  exclaimed  Adele,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 
"  It 's  false  !  I  shall  never  see  my  mother  again  in  this 
world.  I  know  it !  I  know  it !  " 

"  But,  Adaly,  my  child,  consider !  "  said  the  old  gen 
tleman. 

Adele  did  not  heed  him.  She  was  lost  in  her  own 
griefs.  She  could  only  exclaim,  "O  my  father!  my 
father ! " 

The  old  Doctor  was  greatly  moved  :  he  laid  down  his 
spectacles,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  The  ear 
nestness  of  her  doubt  made  him  almost  believe  that  he 
was  himself  deceived. 

"  Can  it  be  ?  can  it  be  ?  "  he  muttered,  half  under 
breath,  while  Adele  sat  drooping  in  her  chair.  "  May 
be  the  instinct  of  the  poor  girl  is  right,  after  all," 
thought  he,  —  "  sin  is  so  full  of  disguises." 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  sharp  tap  at  the  door,  and 
Miss  Eliza  steps  in,  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  Reuben. 


NEW  COMPLICATIONS.  365 

Lvm. 

New    Complications. 

A  LETTER  from  Reuben  indeed  has  come  ;  but  not 
for  Miss  Adele.  The  Doctor  is  glad  of  the  relief 
its  perusal  will  give  him.  Meantime  Miss  Eliza,  in  her 
stately,  patronizing  manner,  and  with  a  coolness  that 
was  worse  than  a  sneer,  says,  "I hope  you  have  pleasant 
news  from  your  various  friends  abroad,  Miss  Maverick  ?  " 

Adele  lifted  her  eyes  with  a  glitter  in  them  that  for 
a  moment  was  almost  serpent-like  ;  then,  as  if  regretting 
her  show  of  vexation,  and  with  an  evasive  reply,  bowed 
her  head  again  to  brood  over  the  strange  suspicions  that 
haunted  her.  Miss  Johns,  totally  unmoved,  —  thinking 
all  the  grief  but  a  righteous  dispensation  for  the  sin  in 
which  the  poor  child  had  been  born,  —  next  addressed 
the  Doctor,  who  had  run  his  eye  with  extraordinary 
eagerness  through  the  letter  of  his  son. 

"  What  does  Reuben  say,  Benjamin  ?  " 

"  His  'idols,'  again,  Eliza ;  't  is  always  the  'flesh-pots 
of  Egypt.'" 

And  the  Doctor  reads  :  "  There  is  just  now  rare  prom 
ise  of  a  good  venture  in  our  trade  at  one  of  the  ports 
of  Sicily,  and  we  have  freighted  two  ships  for  immediate 
dispatch.  At  the  last  moment  our  supercargo  has  failed 
us,  and  Brindlock  has  suggested  that  I  go  myself  ;  it  is 
short  notice,  as  the  ship  is  in  the  stream,  and  may  sail 


366  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

to-morrow,  but  I  rather  fancy  the  idea,  and  have  deter 
mined  to  go.  I  hope  you  will  approve.  Of  course,  I 
shall  have  no  time  to  run  up  to  Ashfield  to  say  good-by. 
I  shall  try  for  a  freight  back  from  Naples,  otherwise 
shall  make  some  excuse  to  run  across  the  Straits  for  a 
look  at  Vesuvius  and  the  matters  thereabout.  St.  Paul, 
you  know,  voyaged  in  those  seas,  which  will  interest  you 
in  my  trip.  I  dare  say  I  shall  find  where  he  landed  ; 
it 's  not  far  from  Naples,  Mrs.  Brindlock  tells  me.  Give 
love  to  the  people  who  ever  ask  about  me  in  Ashfield. 
I  inclose  a  check  of  five  hundred  dollars  for  parish  con 
tingencies  till  I  come  back  ;  hoping  to  find  you  clean  out 
of  harness  by  that  time."  (The  Doctor  cannot  for  his 
life  repress  a  little  smile  here.)  "  Tell  Adele  I  shall  see 
her  blue  Mediterranean  at  last,  and  will  bring  her  back 
an  olive  leaf,  if  I  find  any  growing  within  reach.  Tell 
Phil  I  love  him,  and  that  he  deserves  all  the  good  he  will 
surely  get  in  this  world,  or  in  any  other.  Ditto  for  Rose. 
Ditto  for  good  old  Mrs.  Elderkin,  whom  I  could  almost 
kiss  for  the  love  she  's  shown  me.  What  high  old 
romps  have  n't  we  had  in  her  garden  !  Eh,  Adele  ?  (I 
suppose  you  '11  show  her  this  letter,  father.) 

"  Good-by,  again. 

"  N.  B.  We  hope  to  make  a  cool  thirty  thousand  out 
of  this  venture  !  " 

Adele  had  half  roused  herself  at  the  hearing  of  her 
name,  but  the  careless,  jocular  mention  of  it,  (so  it 
seemed  at  least,)  in  contrast  with  the  warmer  leave-tak 
ing  of  other  friends,  added  a  new  pang  to  her  distress. 
She  wished,  for  a  moment,  that  she  had  never  written 


NEW  COMPLICATIONS.  367 

her  letter  of  thanks.  What  if  she  wished  —  in  that  hour 
of  terrible  suspicion  and  of  vain  search  after  any  object 
upon  which  her  future  happiness  might  rest  —  that  she 
had  never  been  bora  ? 

"  It  will  be  of  service  to  Eeuben,  I  think,  Benjamin," 
said  Aunt  Eliza  ;  "I  quite  approve,"  —  and  slipped  away 
noiselessly. 

The  Doctor  was  still  musing,  —  the  letter  in  his  hand, 

—  when  Adele  rose,  and,  approaching  him,  said  in  her 
gentlest  way,  "  It  's  a  great  grief  to  you,  New  Papa,  I 
know  it  is,  but  'God  orders  all  things  well,'  —  except 
for  me." 

"  Adaly  !  my  child,  I  am  shocked!  " 
She  had  roused  the  preacher  in  him  unwittingly. 
"I  can't  listen  now,"  said  she,  impatiently  ;  "and  tell 
me,  —  you  must,  —  did  papa  give  you  the  name  of  this 

—  new  person  he  is  to  many  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Adaly,  yes,"  but  he  has  forgotten  it  ;  and  search 
ing  for  the  previous  letter,  he  presently  finds  it,  and  sets 
it  before  her,  —  "Mademoiselle  Chalet." 

"  Chalet !  "  screams  she.  "  There  is  some  horrible 
mistake,  New  Papa.  More  than  ever  I  am  in  the  dark, 

—  in  the  dark !  "     And  with  a  hasty  adieu  she  rushed 
away,  taking  her  course  straight  for   the  house  of  that 
outlawed   woman,    with    whom    now,   more   than   ever, 
she  must  have   so  many  sympathies  in  common.     Her 
present  object,  however,  was  to  learn  if  any  more  defin 
ite  evidence  could  be  found  that  the  deceased  lady  — 
mother  still,  in  her  thought  —  bore  the  name  of  Chalet. 
She  found  the  evidence.     One  or  two  little  books  (de- 


368  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

votional  books  they  prove  to  be),  which  the  mistress  of 
the  house  had  thrown  by  as  valueless,  were  brought  out, 
upon  the  fly-leaves  of  which  the  keen  eyes  of  Adele  de 
tected  the  name,  —  crossed  and  recrossed  indeed,  as  if 
the  poor  woman  would  have  destroyed  all  traces  of  her 
identity,  —  but  still  showing  when  held  to  the  light  a 
portion  of  the  name  she  so  cherished  in  her  heart, — 
Chalet. 

Adele  was  more  than  ever  incensed  at  thought  of  the 
delusion  or  the  deception  of  her  father.  But,  by  de 
grees,  her  indignation  yielded  to  her  affection.  He  was 
himself  to  come,  he  wrould  make  it  clear ;  this  new 
mother  —  whom  she  was  sure  she  should  not  love  —  was 
to  remain  ;  the  Doctor  had  told  her  this  much.  She 
would  have  rushed  to  her  arms  ;  no  fear  of  idle  tongues 
could  have  kept  her  back.  And  though  she  jTearned  for 
the  time  when  she  should  be  clasped  once  more  in  her 
father's  arms,  she  dreaded  the  thought  of  crossing  the 
seas  with  him  upon  such  empty  pilgrimage.  She  half 
wished  for  some  excuse  to  detain  her  here,  —  some  fast 
anchor  by  which  her  love  might  cling,  within  reach  of 
that  grave  where  her  holier  affections  had  centered. 

This  wish  was  confirmed  by  the  more  cordial  manner 
in  which  she  was  received  by  the  Elderkins,  and,  indeed, 
by  the  whole  village,  so  soon  as  the  Doctor  had  made 
known  the  fact  —  as  he  did  upon  the  earliest  occasion 
— that  Mr.  Maverick  was  speedily  to  come  for  Adele, 
and  to  restore  her  to  the  embraces  of  a  mother  whom  she 
had  not  seen  for  years. 

Even  the  spinster,  at  the  parsonage,  was  disposed  to 


NEW  COMPLICATIONS.  369 

credit  something  to  the  rigid  legal  aspects  which  the  af 
fair  was  taking,  and  to  find  in  them  a  shelter  for  her 
wounded  dignities.  Nor  did  she  share  the  inquietude 
of  the  Doctor  at  thought  of  the  new  and  terrible  relig 
ious  influences  to  which  Adele  must  presently  be  ex 
posed.  'T  was  right,  in  her  exalted  view,  that  she 
should  struggle  and  agonize  and  wrestle  with  Satan  for 
much  time  to  come,  before  she  should  fully  cleanse  her 
bedraggled  skirts  of  all  taint  of  heathenism,  and  stand 
upon  the  high  plane  with  herself,  among  the  elect. 

"It  is  satisfactory  to  reflect,  Benjamin,"  said  she, 
"that  during  her  residence  with  us  the  poor  girl  has 
been  imbued  with  right  principles  ;  at  least  I  trust 
so." 

And  as  she  spoke,  the  exemplary  old  lady  plucked 
a  little  waif  of  down  from  her  bombazine  dress,  and 
snapped  it  away  jauntily  upon  the  air,  —  even  as  through 
out  her  life,  she  had  snapped  from  her  the  temptations 
of  the  world.  And  when,  in  his  Scripture  reading 
that  very  night,  the  Doctor  came  upon  the  passage, 
"Woe  unto  you,  Pharisees!"  the  mind  of  the  spinster 
was  cheerfully  intent  upon  the  wretched  sinners  of 
Judea. 

M 


370  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

LIX. 

A  Trust  for  Phil. 

riTHJD  news  of  Maverick's  prospective  arrival,  and  the 
-*-  comments  of  the  good  Doctor,  —  as  we  have  said, 
—  shed  a  new  light  upon  the  position  of  Adele.  Old 
Squire  Elderkin,  with  a  fatherly  interest,  was  not  unaf 
fected  by  it ;  indeed,  the  Doctor  had  been  communica 
tive  with  him  to  a  degree  that  had  enlisted  very  warmly 
the  old  gentleman's  sympathies. 

"  Better  late  than  never,  Doctor,"  had  been  his  com 
ment  ;  and  he  had  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  drop  a 
hint  or  two  in  the  ear  of  Phil. 

"I  say,  Phil,  my  boy,  I  gave  you  a  word  of  caution 
not  long  ago  in  regard  to  —  to  Miss  Maverick.  There 
were  some  bad  stories  afloat,  my  boy  ;  but  they  are 
cleared  up,  —  quite  cleared  up,  Phil." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  it,  sir,"  says  Phil. 

"So  am  I,  —  so  am  I,  my  boy.  She 's  a  fine  girl, 
Phil,  eh  ?  " 

"I  think  she  is,  sir." 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !     Well,  and  what  then  ?  " 

Phil  blushed,  but  the  smile  that  came  on  his  face  was 
not  a  hearty  one. 

"Well,  Phil?" 

"  I  said  she  was  a  fine  girl,  sir,"  said  he,  measuredly. 

"  But  she 's  an  uncommon  fine  girl,  Phil,  eh  ?  " 


A    TRUST  FOR  PHIL.  371 

"I  think  she  is,  sir." 
"Weft?'1 

Phil  was  twirling  his  hat  in  an  abstracted  way  be 
tween  his  knees.  "  I  don't  think  she  's  to  be  won  very 
easily,"  said  he  at  last. 

"  Nonsense,  Phil !  Faint  heart  never  won.  Make  a 
bold  push  for  it,  my  boy.  The  best  birds  drop  at  a 
quick  shot" 

"  Do  they  ? "  said  Phil,  with  a  smile  of  incredulity 
that  the  old  gentleman  did  not  comprehend. 

He  found,  indeed,  a  much  larger  measure  of  hope  in 
a  little  hint  that  was  let  fall  by  Rose  two  days  after.  "  I 
would  n't  despair  if  I  were  you,  Phil,"  she  had  whispered 
in  his  ear. 

Phil,  indeed,  had  never  given  over  most  devoted  and 
respectful  attentions  to  Adele  ;  but  he  had  shown  them 
latterly  with  a  subdued  and  half-distrustful  air,  which 
Adele  with  her  keen  insight  had  not  been  slow  to  un 
derstand. 

Yet  it  was  not  easy  for  Phil,  or  indeed  for  any  other, 
to  comprehend  or  explain  the  manner  of  Adele  at  this 
time.  Elated  she  certainly  was  in  the  highest  degree  at 
the  thought  of  meeting  and  welcoming  her  father  ;  and 
there  was  an  exuberance  in  her  spirits  when  she  talked 
of  it,  that  seemed  almost  unnatural ;  but  the  coming 
shadow  of  the  new  mother  whom  she  was  bound  to  wel 
come  dampened  all.  The  Doctor  indeed  had  warned  her 
against  the  Romish  prejudices  of  this  newly  found  rela 
tive,  and  had  entreated  her  to  cling  by  the  faith  in  which 
she  had  been  reared  ;  but  it  was  no  fear  of  any  such  con- 


372  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

flict  that  oppressed  her  ;  —  creeds  all  vanished  under  the 
blaze  of  that  natural  affection  which  craved  a  motherly 
embrace  and  which  foresaw  only  falsity. 

What  wonder  if  her  thought  ran  back,  in  its  craving, 
to  the  days  long  gone,  —  to  the  land  where  the  olive 
grew  upon  the  hills,  and  the  sunshine  lay  upon  the 
sea, — where  an  old  godmother,  with  withered  hands 
clasped  and  raised,  lifted  up  her  voice  at  nightfall  and 
chanted,  — 

"  0  sanctissima, 
O  piissima, 
Dulcis  virgo  Maria  !  " 

The  Doctor  would  have  been  shocked  had  he  heard 
the  words  tripping  from  the  tongue  of  Adele  ;  yet,  for 
her,  they  had  no  meaning  save  as  expressive  of  a  deep 
yearning  for  motherly  guidance  and  motherly  affec 
tion. 

Mrs.  Elderkin,  with  her  kindly  instinct,  had  seen  the 
perplexity  of  Adele,  and  had  said  to  her  one  day,  "  Ady, 
my  dear,  is  the  thought  not  grateful  to  you  that  you  will 
meet  your  mother  once  more,  and  be  clasped  in  her 
arms?" 

"If  I  could,  if  I  could  !  "  said  Adele,  with  a  burst  of 
tears. 

"But  you  will,  my  child,  you  will.  The  Doctor  has 
shown  us  the  letters  of  your  father.  Even  now  she 
must  be  longing  to  greet  you." 

"  Why  does  she  not  come  then  ?  "  —  with  a  tone  that 
was  almost  taunting. 

"But,   Adele,   my   dear,    there   may  be    reasons  of 


A    TRUST  FOR   PHIL.  373 

which  you  do  not  know  or  which  you  could  not  under 
stand." 

"  I  could,  —  I  do  ! n  said  Adele,  with  spirit  mastering 
her  grief.  "  'T  is  not  my  mother,  my  true  mother  ;  she 
is  in  the  grave-yard  ;  I  know  it !  " 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  decide  hastily.  We  love  you  ; 
we  all  love  you.  And  whatever  may  happen,  you  shall 
have  a  home  with  us.  I  will  be  a  mother  to  you,  Adele. " 

The  girl  kissed  her  good  hostess,  and  the  words  lin 
gered  on  her  ear  long  after  nightfall.  Why  not  her 
mother  ?  What  home  more  grateful  ?  And  should  she 
bring  dishonor  to  it  then  ?  Could  she  be  less  sensitive 
to  that  thought  than  her  father  had  already  shown  him 
self  ?  She  perceives,  indeed,  that  within  a  short  time, 
and  since  the  latter  communications  from  her  father,  the 
manner  of  those  who  had  looked  most  suspiciously  upon 
her  has  changed.  But  they  do  not  know  the  secret  of 
that  broidered  kerchief  —  the  secret  of  that  terrible 
death-clasp,  which  she  never,  never  can  forget.  She 
will  be  true  to  her  own  sense  of  honor  ;  she  will  be  true, 
too,  to  her  own  faith,  —  the  faith  in  which  she  has  been 
reared,  —  whatever  may  be  the  persuasions  of  that  new 
relative  beyond  the  seas  whom  she  so  dreads  to  meet. 

Indeed,  it  is  with  dreary  anticipations  that  she  fore 
casts  now  her  return  to  that  belle  France  which  has  so 
long  borne  olive-branches  along  its  shores  for  welcome  ; 
she  foresees  struggle,  change,  hypocrisies,  may  be,  — 
who  can  tell  ?  —  and  she  begins  to  count  the  weeks  of 
her  stay  amid  the  quiet  of  Ashfield  in  the  same  spirit  in 
which  youngsters  score  off  the  remaining  days  of  the  long 


374  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

vacation.  Adele  finds  herself  gathering,  and  pressing 
within  the  leaves  of  some  cherished  book,  little  sprays  of 
dead  bloom  that  shall  be,  in  the  dim  and  mysterious 
future,  mementos  of  the  walks,  the  frolics,  the  joys  that 
have  belonged  to  this  staid  New  England  home.  From 
the  very  parsonage  door  she  has  brought  away  a  sprig 
of  a  rampant  sweet-brier  that  has  grown  there  this  many 
a  year,  and  its  delicate  leaflets  are  among  her  chiefesfc 
treasures. 

More  eagerly  than  ever  she  listens  to  the  kindly  voices 
that  greet  her  and  speak  cheer  to  her  in  the  home  of  the 
Elderkins,  —  voices  which  she  feels  bitterly  will  soon  be 
heard  no  more  by  her.  Even  the  delicate  and  always 
respectful  attentions  of  Phil  have  an  added,  though  a 
painful  charm,  since  they  are  so  soon  to  have  an  end. 
She  knows  that  she  will  remember  him  always,  though 
his  tender est  words  can  waken  no  hopes  of  a  brighter 
future  for  her.  She  even  takes  him  partially  into  her 
confidence,  and,  strolling  with  him  down  the  street  one 
day,  she  decoys  him  to  the  churchyard  gate,  where  she 
points  out  to  him  the  stone  she  had  placed  over  the  grave 
that  was  so  sacred  to  her. 

"Phil,"  said  she,  "  you  have  always  been  full  of  kind 
ness  for  me.  When  I  am  gone,  have  a  care  of  that  stone 
and  grave,  please,  PhiL  My  best  friend  lies  there." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  your  best  friends,"  stam 
mered  Phil. 

"  I  know  you  are  one,"  said  Adele,  calmly,  "  and  that 
I  can  trust  you  to  do  what  I  ask  about  this  grave.  Can 
I,  Phil?" 


A    TRUST  FOR   PHIL.  375 

"  You  know  you  can,  Adele  ;  but  I  don't  like  this  talk 
of  your  going,  as  if  you  were  never  to  be  among  us 
again.  Do  you  think  you  can  be  happiest  yonder  with 
strangers,  Adele  ?  " 

"  It 's  not  —  where  I  can  be  happiest,  Phil ;  I  don't 
ask  myself  that  question  ;  I  fear  I  never  can  ;  " —  and 
her  lips  trembled  as  she  said  it. 

"  You  can,  —  you  ought,"  burst  out  Phil,  fired  at  sight 
of  her  emotion,  and  would  have  gone  on  bravely  and 
gallantly,  may  be,  with  the  passion  that  was  surging  in 
him,  if  a  look  of  hers  and  a  warning  finger  had  not 
stayed  him. 

""We'll  talk  no  more  of  this,  Phil;"  and  her  lips 
were  as  firm  as  iron  now. 

Both  of  them  serious  and  silent  for  a  while  ;  until  at 
length  Adele,  in  quite  her  old  manner,  says  :  "  Of  course, 
Phil,  father  may  bring  me  to  America  again  some  day  ; 
and  if  so,  I  shall  certainly  beg  for  a  little  visit  in  Ashfield. 
It  would  be  very  ungrateful  in  me  not  to  remember  the 
pleasant  times  I  've  had  here." 

But  Phil  cannot  so  deftly  change  the  color  of  his  talk  ; 
his  chattiness  has  all  gone  from  him.  Nor  does  it  revive 
on  reaching  home.  Good  Mrs.  Elderkin  says,  "  What 
makes  you  so  crusty,  Phil  ?  " 


376  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

LX. 

Father  and  Child. 

MAVERICK  arrives,  as  he  had  promised  to  do,  some 
time  in  early  July ;  comes  up  from  the  city 
without  announcing  himself  in  advance  ;  and,  leaving 
the  old  coach,  which  still  makes  its  periodical  trips  from 
the  river,  a  mile  out  from  the  town,  strolls  along  the 
highway.  He  remembers  well  the  old  outline  of  the 
hills ;  and  the  straggling  hedge-rows,  the  scattered 
granite  boulders,  the  whistling  of  a  quail  from  a  near 
fence  in  the  meadow,  —  all  recall  the  old  scenes  which 
he  knew  in  boyhood.  At  a  solitary  house  by  the  wayside 
a  flaxen-haired  youngster  is  blowing  off  soap-bubbles 
into  the  air, —  with  obstreperous  glee  whenever  one  rises 
above  the  house-tops,  —  while  the  mother,  with  arms 
akimbo,  looks  admiringly  from  the  open  window.  It 
was  the  home  to  which  the  feet  of  Adele  had  latterly  so 
often  wandered. 

Maverick  is  anxious  for  a  word  with  the  Doctor  before 
his  interview  with  Adele  even.  He  does  not  know  her 
present  home  ;  but  he  is  sure  he  can  recall  the  old  par 
sonage,  in  whose  exterior,  indeed,  there  have  been  no 
changes  for  years.  The  shade  of  the  embowering  elms 
is  grateful  as  he  strolls  on  into  the  main  street  of  the 
town.  It  is  early  afternoon,  and  there  are  few  passers-by. 
Here  and  there  a  blind  is  coyty  turned,  and  a  sly  glance 


FATHER   AXD    CHILD.  377 

cast  upon  the  stranger.     A  trio  of  school-boys  look  won- 
deringly  at  his  foreign  air  and  dress.     A  few  loiterers 
upon  the  tavern  steps — instructed,   doubtless,  by  the 
stage-driver,  who  has  duly  delivered  his  portmanteau  — 
remark  upon  him  as  he  passes. 

And  now  at  last  he  sees  the  old  porch,  —  the  diamond 
lights  in  the  door.  Twenty  and  more  years  ago,  and  he 
had  lounged  there,  as  the  pretty  Rachel  drove  up  in  the 
parson's  chaise.  The  same  rose-brier  is  nodding  its  uu- 
trimmed  boughs  by  the  door.  From  the  open  window 
above  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  a  hard,  thin  face,  with 
spectacles  on  nose,  that  scans  him  curiously.  The  Doc 
tor's  hat  and  cane  are  upon  the  table  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  within.  He  taps  with  his  knuckles  upon  the 
study-door,  —  and  again  the  two  college  mates  are  met 
together.  At  sight  of  the  visitor,  whom  he  recognizes 
at  a  glance,  the  heart  of  the  old  man  is  stirred  by  a  lit 
tle  of  the  old  youthful  feeling. 

"Maverick  !  "  and  he  greets  him  with  open  hand. 

"  Johns,  God  bless  you  !  " 

The  parson  was  white-haired,  and  was  feeble  to  a  de 
gree  that  shocked  Maverick  ;  while  the  latter  was  still 
erect  and  prim.  His  coquettings  for  sixty  years  with  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  Devil  had  not  yet  reduced  his 
physique  to  that  degree  of  weakness  which  the  multiplied 
spiritual  wrestlings  had  entailed  upon  the  good  Doctor. 
The  minister  recognized  this  with  a  look  rather  of  pity 
than  of  envy,  and  may  possibly  have  bethought  himself 
of  that  Dives  who  "  in  his  lifetime  received  good  things," 
but  "now  is  tormented." 


378  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

Yet  he  ventured  upon  no  warning  ;  there  is,  indeed,  a 
certain  assured  manner  about  the  man  of  the  world  who 
has  passed  middle  age,  which  a  country  parson,  however 
good  or  earnest  he  may  be,  would  no  more  attempt  to 
pierce  than  he  would  attempt  a  thrust  of  his  pen  through 
ice. 

Their  conversation,  after  the  first  greetings,  naturally 
centers  upon  Adele.  Maverick  is  relieved  to  find  that 
she  knows,  even  now,  the  worst ;  but  he  is  grievously 
pained  to  learn  that  she  is  still  in  doubt,  by  reason  of 
that  strange  episode  which  had  grown  out  of  the  pres 
ence  and  death  of  Madame  Aries,  —  an  episode  which, 
even  now,  he  is  at  a  loss  to  explain. 

"  She  will  be  unwilling  to  return  with  me  then,"  said 
Maverick,  in  a  troubled  manner. 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "she  expects  that.  You  will  find 
in  her,  Maverick,  a  beautiful  respect  for  your  authority  ; 
and,  I  think,  a  still  higher  respect  for  the  truth." 

So  it  was  with  disturbed  and  conflicting  feelings  that 
Maverick  made  his  way  to  the  present  home  of  Adele. 

The  windows  and  doors  of  the  Elderkin  mansion  were 
all  open  upon  that  July  day.  Adele  had  seen  him,  even 
as  he  entered  the  little  gate,  and,  recognizing  him  on 
the  instant,  had  rushed  down  to  meet  him  in  the  hall. 

"Papa  !  papa !  "  and  she  had  buried  her  face  upon  his 
bosom. 

"Adele,  darling!  you  are  glad  to  welcome  me  then?" 

"Delighted,  papa." 

And  Maverick  kissed,  again  and  again,  that  fair  face 
of  which  he  was  so  proud. 


FATHER   AND    CHILD.  379 

We  recoil  from  the  attempt  to  transcribe  the  glowing 
intimacy  of  their  first  talk. 

After  a  time,  Maverick  says,  "You  will  be  glad  to  re 
turn  with  me,  —  glad  to  embrace  again  your  mother  ?  " 

"My  own,  true  mother?"  said  Adele,  the  blood  run 
ning  now  swift  over  cheek  and  brow. 

"  Your  own,  Adele,  —  your  own  !     As  God  is  true  ! " 

Adele  grows  calm,  —  an  unwonted  calmness.  "  Tell 
me  how  she  looks,  papa,"  said  she. 

"Your  figure,  Adele  ;  not  so  tall,  perhaps,  but  slight 
like  you  ;  and  her  hair,  —  you  have  her  hair,  darling 
(and  he  kissed  it).  Your  eye  too,  for  color,  with  a  slight, 
hardly  noticeable  cast  in  it"  And  as  Adele  turned  an 
inquiring  glance  upon  him,  he  exclaimed  :  "  You  have 
that  too,  my  darling,  as  you  look  at  me  now." 

Adele,  still  calm,  says  :  "I  know  it,  papa  ;  I  have  seen 
her.  Do  not  deceive  me.  She  died  in  these  arms, 
papa  !  "  —  and  with  that  her  calmness  is  gone.  She  can 
only  weep  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  But,  Adele,  child,  this  cannot  be  ;  do  not  trust  to  so 
wild  a  fancy.  You  surely  believe  me,  darling  ?  " 

Had  she  argued  the  matter,  he  would  have  been  bet 
ter  satisfied.  She  did  not,  however.  Her  old  tranquil 
lity  came  again. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  papa,  cheerfully,"  said  she. 

It  was  only  too  evident  to  Maverick  that  there  was  a 
cause  of  distrust  between  them.  Under  all  of  Adele's 
earnest  demonstrations  of  affection,  which  were  intense 
ly  grateful  to  him,  there  was  still  a  certain  apparent 
reserve  of  confidence,  as  if  some  great  inward  leaning 


380  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

of  her  heart  found  no  support  in  him  or  his.  This 
touched  him  to  the  quick.  The  Doctor  —  had  he  un 
folded  the  matter  to  him  fully  —  would  have  called  it, 
may  be,  the  sting  of  retribution.  Nor  was  Maverick  at 
all  certain  that  the  shadowy  doubt  which  seemed  to  rest 
upon  the  mind  of  Adele  with  respect  to  the  identity  of 
her  mother  was  the  sole  cause  of  this  secret  reserve  of 
confidence.  It  might  be,  he  thought,  that  her  affections 
were  otherwise  engaged,  and  that  the  change  to  which 
she  assented  with  so  little  fervor  would  be  at  the  cost  of 
other  ties  to  which  he  was  a  stranger. 

On  this  score  he  consulted  with  the  Doctor.  As  re 
garded  Reuben,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Whatever  tie 
may  have  existed  there  was  long  since  broken.  With 
respect  to  Phil  Elderkin  the  parson  w7as  not  so  certain. 
Maverick  had  been  attracted  by  his  fine,  frank  manner, 
and  was  not  blind  to  his  capital  business  capacities  and 
prospects.  If  the  happiness  of  Adcle  were  in  question, 
he  could  entertain  the  affair.  He  even  ventured  to  ap 
proach  the  topic  —  coyly  as  he  could  —  in  a  talk  with 
Adele  ;  and  she,  as  the  first  glimmer  of  his  meaning 
dawned  upon  her,  says,  "Don't  whisper  it,  papa.  It 
can  never  be." 

And  so  Maverick  —  not  a  little  disconcerted  at  the 
thought  that  he  cannot  now,  as  once,  fathom  all  the 
depths  of  his  child's  sensibilities  —  sets  himself  resolute 
ly  to  the  work  of  preparation  for  departure.  His  affaires 
may  keep  him  a  month,  and  involve  a  visit  to  one  or 
two  of  the  principal  cities  ;  then,  ho  for  la  belle  France ! 
Adele  certainly  lends  seemingly  a  cheerful  assent.  He 


FATHER  AND    CHILD.  381 

cannot  doubt  —  with  those  repeated  kisses  on  his  cheek 
and  brow  —  her  earnest  filial  affection  ;  and  if  her  senti 
ment  slips  beyond  his  control,  or  parries  all  his  keenness 
of  vision,  what  else  has  a  father,  verging  upon  sixty, 
to  expect  in  a  daughter,  tenderly  affectionate  as  she 
may  be?  Maverick's  philosophy  taught  him  to  "take 
the  world  as  it  is."  Only  one  serious  apprehension  of 
disquietude  oppressed  him  ;  the  doubts  and  vagaries 
of  Adele  would  clear  themselves  under  the  embrace  of 
Julie  ;  but  in  respect  to  the  harmony  of  their  religious 
beliefs  he  had  grave  doubts.  There  had  grown  upon 
Adele,  since  he  had  last  seen  her,  a  womanly  dignity, 
which  even  a  mother  must  respect ;  and  into  that  dignity 
—  into  the  woof  and  warp  of  it  —  were  inwrought  all 
her  religious  sympathies.  Was  his  home  yonder  across 
the  seas  to  become  the  scene  of  struggles  about  creeds  ? 
It  certainly  was  not  the  sort  of  domestic  picture  he  had 
foreshadowed  to  himself  at  twenty-five.  But  at  sixty  a 
man  blows  bubbles  no  longer  —  except  that  of  his  own 
conceit.  The  heart  of  Maverick  was  not  dead  in  him  ; 
a  kiss  of  Adele  wakened  a  thrilling,  delicious  sensation 
there,  of  which  he  had  forgotten  his  capability.  He 
followed  her  graceful  step  and  figure  with  an  eye  that 
looked  beyond  and  haunted  the  past  —  vainly,  vainly  ! 
Her  "  Papa  !  "  —  sweetly  uttered  —  stirred  sensibilities 
in  him  that  amazed  himself,  and  seemed  like  the  phan 
toms  of  dreams  he  dreamed  long  ago. 

But  in  the  midst  of  Maverick's  preparations  for  de 
parture  a  letter  came  to  hand  from  Mrs.  Maverick, 
which  complicated  once  more  the  situation. 


382  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

LXI. 

The  Truth  at  Last. 

rflHE  mother  has  read  the  letter  of  her  child,  —  the 
-•-  letter  in  which  appeal  had  been  made  to  the  father 
in  behalf  of  the  "  unworthy  "  one  whom  the  daughter 
believed  to  be  sleeping  in  her  grave.  The  tenderness 
of  the  appeal  smote  the  poor  woman  to  the  heart.  It 
bound  her  to  the  child  she  scarce  had  seen  by  bonds  into 
which  her  whole  moral  being  was  knitted  anew.  But 
we  must  give  the  letter  entire,  as  offering  explanations 
which  can  in  no  way  be  better  set  forth.  The  very 
language  kindles  the  ardor  of  Adele.  Her  own  old 
speech  again,  with  the  French  echo  of  her  childhood  in 
every  line. 

"Mon  cher  Monsieur," —  in  this  way  she  begins  ;  for 
her  religious  severities,  if  not  her  years,  have  curbed  any 
disposition  to  explosive  tenderness,  —  "I  have  received 
the  letter  of  our  child,  which  was  addressed  to  you.  I 
cannot  tell  you  the  feelings  with  which  I  have  read  it. 
I  long  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart.  And  she  appeals  to  you, 
for  me,  —  the  dear  child  !  Yes,  you  have  well  done  in 
telling  her  that  I  was  unworthy  (mechante).  It  is  true, 
—  unworthy  in  forgetting  duty,  —  unworthy  in  loving 
too  well.  O  Monsieur !  if  I  could  live  over  again  that 
life,  —  that  dear  young  life  among  the  olive  orchards  I 


THE   TRUTH  AT  LAST.  383 

But  the  good  Christ  (thank  Him  !)  leads  back  the  re 
pentant  wanderers  into  the  fold  of  His  Church. 

'  Laus  tibi,  Christe  ! ' 

"  And  the  poor  child  believes  that  I  am  in  my  grave. 
May  be  that  were  better  for  her  and  better  for  me. 
But  no,  I  shall  clasp  her  to  my  heart  once  more,  —  she, 
the  poor  babe !  But  I  forget  myself ;  it  is  a  woman's 
letter  I  have  been  reading.  What  earnestness  !  what 
maturity  !  what  dignity !  what  tenderness  !  And  will 
she  be  as  tender  to  the  living  as  to  the  erring  one  whom 
she  believes  dead  ?  My  heart  stops  when  I  ask  myself. 
Yes,  I  know  she  will.  The  Blessed  Virgin  whispers  me 
that  she  will,  and  I  fly  to  greet  her  !  A  month,  two 
months,  three  months,  four  months  ?  —  It  is  an  age. 

"  Monsieur  !     I  cannot  wait.     I  must  take  ship  —  sail 

—  wings  (if  I  could  find  them),  and  go  to  meet  my  child. 
Until  I  do  there  is  a  tempest  in  my  brain —  heart  —  every 
where.     You  are  surprised,  Monsieur :  but  there  is  an 
other  reason  why  I  should  go  to  this  land  where  Adele  has 
lived.     Do  you  wish  to  know  it  ?  Listen,  then,  Monsieur ! 

"Do  you  know  who  this  poor  sufferer  was  whom  our 
child  had  learned  so  to  love,  who  died  in  her  arms,  who 
sleeps  in  the  grave-yard  there,  and  of  whom  Adele  thinks 
as  of  a  mother  ?  I  have  inquired,  I  have  searched  high 
and  low,  I  have  fathomed  all  Ah,  my  poor,  good  sister 
Marie  !  Only  Marie  !  You  have  never  known  her.  In 
those  other  days  at  dear  Aries  she  was  too  good  for  you 
to  know  her.  Yet  even  then  she  was  a  guardian  angel, 

—  a  guardian  too  late.     Mea  culpa !     Mea  culpa  ! 


384  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"  I  know  it  can  be  only  Marie  ;  I  know  it  can  be 

only  she,  who  sleeps  under  the  sod  in  Ash (ce  nom 

m'echappe). 

"Listen  again  :  in  those  early,  bitter,  charming  days, 
when  you,  Monsieur,  knew  the  hill-sides  and  the  drives 
about  our  dear  old  town  of  Aries,  poor  Marie  was  away  ; 
had  she  been  there,  I  had  never  listened,  as  I  did  listen, 
to  the  words  you  whispered  in  my  ear.  Only  when  it 
was  too  late,  she  came.  Poor,  good  Marie  !  how  she 
pleaded  with  me  !  How  her  tender,  good  face  spoke  re 
proaches  to  me!  If  I  was  the  pride  of  our  household, 
she  was  the  angel.  She  it  was,  who,  knowing  the  worst, 
said,  '  Julie,  this  must  end  ! '  She  it  was  who  labored 
day  and  night  to  set  me  free  from  the  wicked  web  that 
bound  me.  I  reproached  her,  the  poor,  good  Marie,  in 
saying  that  she  was  the  plainer,  that  she  had  no  beauty, 
that  she  was  devoured  with  envy.  But  the  Blessed  Vir 
gin  was  working  ever  by  her  side.  Whatever  doubts  you 
may  have  entertained  of  me,  Monsieur,  —  she  created 
them  ;  whatever  suspicions  tortured  you,  —  she  fed 
them,  but  always  with  the  holiest  of  motives.  And  when 
shame  came,  as  it  did  come,  the  poor  Marie  would  have 
screened  me,  —  would  have  carried  the  odium  herself. 
Good  Marie  !  the  angels  have  her  in  keeping  ! 

"  Listen  again,  Monsieur  !  When  that  story,  that  false 
story,  of  the  death  of  my  poor  child,  came  to  light  in  the 
journals,  who  but  Marie  should  come  to  me  —  deceived 
herself  as  I  was  deceived  —  and  say,  '  Julie,  dear  one, 
God  has  taken  the  child  in  mercy ;  there  is  no  stigma 
can  rest  upon  you  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Live  now 


THE    TRUTH  AT  LAST.  385 

as  the  Blessed  Magdalen  lived  when  Christ  had  befriend 
ed  her.'  And  by  her  strength  I  was  made  strong  ;  the 
Blessed  Virgin  be  thanked  ! 

"  Finally,  it  came  to  her  knowledge  one  day,  —  the 
dear  Marie  !  —  that  the  rumor  of  the  death  was  untrue, 

—  that  the  babe  was  living,  —  that  the  poor   child  had 
been  sent  over  the  seas  to  your  home,  Monsieur.     "Well,  I 
was  far  away  in  the  East.     Does  Marie  tell  me  ?     No,  the 
dear  one  !    She  writes  me,  that  she  is  going  '  over  seas, ' 

—  tired  of  la  belle  France,  —  she  who  loved  it  so  dearly ! 
And  she  went,  —  to  watch,  to  pray,  to  console.     And  I, 
the  mother!  — Mon  Dieu,  Monsieur,  the  words  fail  me. 
Xo  wonder  our  child  loved  her  ;  no  wonder  she  seems  a 
mother  to  her. 

"  Listen  yet  again,  Monsieur.  My  poor  sister  died 
yonder,  in  that  heretical  land,  —  may  be  without  absolu 
tion.  I  must  go,  if  it  be  only  to  find  her  grave,  and  to 
secure  her  burial  in  some  consecrated  spot.  She  wraits 
for  me,  —  her  ghost,  her  spirit,  —  I  must  go  ;  the  holy 
water  must  be  sprinkled  ;  the  priestly  rites  be  said. 
Marie,  poor  Marie,  I  will  not  fail  you. 

"  Monsieur,  I  must  go  !  —  not  alone  to  greet  our  child 
but  to  do  justice  to  my  sainted  sister  !  Listen  well !  All 
that  has  been  devotional  in  my  poor  life  centers  here.  I 
must  go,  —  I  must  do  what  I  may  to  hallow  my  poor  sis 
ter's  grave.  Adele  will  not  give  up  her  welcome  surely, 
if  I  am  moved  by  such  religious  purpose.  She,  too, 
must  join  me  in  an  A  ve  Maria  over  that  resting-place  of 
the  departed. 

"I  shall  send  this  letter  by  the  overland  and  Brit- 
25 


386  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ish  mail,  that  it  may  come  to  you  very  swiftty.  It  will 
come  to  you  while  you  are  with  the  poor  child,  — our 
Adele.  Greet  her  for  me  as  warmly  as  you  can.  Tell 
her  I  shall  hope,  God  willing,  to  bring  her  into  the 
bosom  of  his  Holy  Church  Catholic.  I  shall  try  and 
love  her,  though  she  remain  a  heretic  ;  but  this  will  not 
be. 

"  If  I  can  enough  curb  myself,  I  shall  wait  for  your 
answer,  Monsieur  ;  but  it  is  necessary  that  I  go  yonder. 
Look  for  me  ;  kiss  our  child  for  me.  And  if  you  ever 
prayed,  Monsieur,  I  should  say,  pray  for 

"  Votre  amie, 

"  JULIE." 

The  letter  is  of  the  nature  of  a  revelation  to  Adele  ; 
her  doubts  respecting  Madame  Aries  vanish  on  the  in 
stant.  The  truth,  as  set  forth  in  her  mother's  language, 
blazes  upon  her  mind  like  a  flame.  She  loves  the  grave 
none  the  less,  but  the  mother  by  far  the  more.  She, 
too,  wishes  to  greet  her  amid  the  scenes  which  she  has 
known  so  long.  Nor  is  Maverick  himself  averse  to 
this  new  disposition  of  affairs,  if  indeed  he  possessed 
any  power  (which  he  somewhat  doubts)  of  readjusting 
it. 

Adele,  after  her  first  period  of  exultation  over  the  re 
cent  news  is  passed,  relapses  — perhaps  by  reason  of  its 
excess  —  into  something  of  her  old  vague  doubt  and  ap 
prehension  of  coming  evil.  The  truth  —  if  it  be  truth 
—  is  so  strange  !  —  so  mysteriously  strange  that  she 
shall  indeed  clasp  her  mother  to  her  heart  ;  the  grave 


Ulv 

THE   TRUTH  J*^0£^^  387 

yonder  is  so  real !  and  that  fearful  embrace  in  death  so 
present  to  her!  Or  it  may  be  an  anticipation  of  the 
fearful  spiritual  estrangement  that  must  ensue,  and  of 
which  she  seems  to  find  confirmation  in  the  earnest  talk 
and  gloomy  forebodings  of  the  Doctor. 

Maverick  effects  a  diversion  by  proposing  a  jaunt  of 
travel,  in  which  Rose  shall  be  their  companion.  Adele 
accepts  the  scheme  with  delight,  —  a  delight,  after  all, 
which  lies  as  much  in  the  thought  of  watching  the  eager 
enjoyment  of  Rose  as  in  any  pleasant  distractions  of  her 
own.  The  pleasure  of  Maverick  is  by  no  means  so  great 
as  in  that  trip  of  a  few  years  back.  Then  he  had  for 
companion  an  enthusiastic  girl,  to  whom  life  was  fresh, 
and  all  the  clouds  that  seemed  to  rest  upon  it  so 
shadowy,  that  each  morning  sun  lifting  among  the 
mountains  dispersed  them  utterly. 

Now,  Adele  showed  the  thoughtfuluess  of  a  woman, 
—  her  enthusiasms  held  in  check  by  a  more  calm  estimate 
of  the  life  that  opened  before  her,  —  her  sportiveness 
overborne  by  a  soberness,  which,  if  it  gave  dignity,  gave 
also  a  womanly  gravity.  Yet  she  did  not  lack  filial  de 
votion  ;  she  admired  still  that  easy  world-manner  of  his 
which  had  once  called  out  her  enthusiastic  regard,  but 
now  queried  in  her  secret  heart  if  its  acquisition  had  not 
involved  cost  of  purity  of  conscience.  She  loved  him 
too,  —  yes,  she  loved  him  ;  and  her  evening  and  morn 
ing  kiss  and  embrace  were  reminders  to  him  of  a  joy  he 
might  have  won,  but  had  not,  —  of  a  home  peace  that 
might  have  been  his,  but  whose  image  now  only  lifted 
above  his  horizon  like  some  splendid  mirage  crowded 


388  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

with  floating  fairy  shapes,  and  like  the  mirage  melted 
presently  into  idle  vapor. 

It  was  a  novel  experience  for  Maverick  to  find  himself 
(as  he  did  time  and  again  upon  this  summer  trip  in  New 
England)  sandwiched,  of  a  Sunday,  between  his  two 
blooming  companions  and  some  sober-sided  deacon,  in 
the  pew  of  a  country  meeting-house.  How  his  friend 
Papiol  would  have  stared  !  And  the  suggestion,  com 
ing  to  him  with  the  buzz  of  a  summer  fly  through  the 
open  windows,  did  not  add  to  his  devotional  sentiment. 
Yet  Maverick  would  follow  gravely  the  scramble  of  the 
singers  through  the  appointed  hymn  with  a  sober  self- 
denial,  counting  the  self-denial  a  virtue.  We  all  make 
memoranda  of  the  small  religious  virtues  when  the  large 
ones  are  missing. 

Upon  the  return  to  Ashfield  there  is  found  a  new  let 
ter  from  Madame  Maverick.  She  can  restrain  herself  no 
longer.  Under  the  advice  of  her  brother,  she  will,  with 
her  maid,  take  the  first  safe  ship  leaving  Marseilles  for 
New  York.  She  longs  to  bring  Adele  with  herself,  by 
special  consecration,  under  the  guardianship  of  the  Holy 
Virgin. 

The  Doctor  is  greatly  grieved  in  view  of  the  speedy 
departure  of  Adele,  and  tenfold  grieved  when  Maverick 
lays  before  him  the  letter  of  the  mother,  and  he  sees  the 
fiery  zeal  which  the  poor  child  must  confront. 

Over  and  over  in  those  last  interviews  he  seeks  to  for 
tify  her  faith  ;  he  warns  her  against  the  delusions,  the 
falsities,  the  idolatries  of  Home  ;  he  warns  her  to  dis 
trust  a  religion  of  creeds,  of  human  authority,  of  tradi- 


REUBEN  AT  ROME.  389 

tions.  Christ,  the  Bible,  —  these  are  the  true  monitors  ; 
and  "Mind,  Adaly,"  says  he,  "hold  fast  always  to  the 
Doctrine  of  the  Westminster  Divines.  That  is  sound, 
—  that  is  sound  !  " 


LXIL 

Reuben  at  Rome. 

REUBEN  went  with  a  light  heart  upon  his  voyage. 
The  tender  memories  of  Ashfield  were  mostly 
lived  down.  (Had  the  letter  of  Adele  ever  reached  him, 
it  might  have  been  far  different. )  Rose,  Phil,  the  Tour- 
telots,  the  Tew  partners  (still  worrying  through  a  green 
old  age),  the  meeting-house,  even  the  Doctor  himself 
and  Adele,  seemed  to  belong  to  a  sphere  whose  interests 
were  widely  separate  from  his  own,  and  in  which  he 
should  appear  henceforth  only  as  a  casual  spectator.  The 
fascinations  of  his  brilliant  business  successes  had  a  firm 
grip  upon  him.  He  indulges  himself,  indeed,  from  time 
to  time,  with  the  fancy  that  some  day,  far  off  now,  he 
will  return  to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  and  astonish 
some  of  the  old  landholders  by  buying  them  out  at  a 
fabulous  price,  and  by  erecting  a  "  castle  "  of  his  own, 
to  be  enlivened  by  the  fairy  graces  of  some  sylph  not 
yet  fairly  determined  upon.  Surely  not  Rose,  who  would 
hardly  be  equal  to  the  grandeur  of  his  proposed  establish 
ment,  if  she  were  not  already  engrossed  by  that  "noodle" 
(his  thought  expressing  itself  thus  wrathfully)  of  an 
assistant  minister.  Adele,  —  and  the  name  has  some- 


390  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

thing  in  it  that  electrifies,  in  spite  of  himself,  —  Adele,  if 
she  ever  overcomes  her  qualms  of  conscience,  will  yield 
to  the  tender  persuasions  of  Phil.  "  Gooil  luck  to  him  !  " 
—  and  he  says  this,  too,  with  a  kind  of  wrathful  glee. 

Still,  he  builds  his  cloud  castles  ;  some  one  must 
needs  inhabit  them.  Some  paragon  of  refinement  and 
of  beauty  will  one  day  appear,  for  whose  tripping  feet 
his  wealth  will  lay  down  a  path  of  pearls  and  gold.  The 
lonely,  star-lit  nights  at  sea  encourage  such  phantasms  ; 
and  the  break  of  the  waves  upon  the  bow,  with  their 
myriad  of  phosphorescent  sparkles,  cheats  and  illumines 
the  fancy.  We  will  not  follow  him  throughout  his  voy 
age.  On  a  balmy  morning  of  July  he  wakes  with  the 
great  cliff  of  Gibraltar  frowning  on  him.  After  this 
come  light,  baffling  winds,  and  for  a  week  he  looks 
southward  upon  the  mysterious,  violet  lift  of  the  Barbary 
shores,  and  pushes  slowly  eastward  into  the  blue  ex 
panse  of  the  Mediterranean.  In  the  Sicilian  ports  he  is 
abundantly  successful.  He  has  ample  time  to  cross  over 
to  Naples,  to  ascend  Vesuvius,  and  to  explore  Hercula- 
neum  and  Pompeii.  But  he  does  not  forget  the  other 
side  of  the  beautiful  bay,  Baise  and  Pozzuoli.  He  takes, 
indeed,  a  healthful  pleasure  in  writing  to  the  Doctor  a 
description  of  this  latter,  and  of  his  walk  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  great  seaport  where  St.  Paul  must  have  landed 
from  his  ship  of  the  Castor  and  Pollux,  on  his  way  from 
Syracuse.  But  he  does  not  tell  the  Doctor  that,  on  the 
same  evening,  he  attended  an  opera  at  the  San  Carlo  in 
Naples,  of  which  the  ballet,  if  nothing  else,  would  have 
called  down  the  good  man's  anathema. 


REUBEN  AT  ROME.  391 

An  American  of  twenty-five,  placed  for  the  first  time 
upon  the  sunny  pavements  of  Naples,  takes  a  new  lease 
of  life,  —  at  least  of  its  imaginative  part.  The  beauti 
ful  blue  stretch  of  sea,  the  lava  streets,  the  buried  towns 
and  cities,  the  baths  and  ruins  of  Baia?,  the  burning 
mountain,  pih'ng  its  smoke  and  fire  into  the  serene  sky, 
the  memories  of  Tiberius,  of  Cicero,  of  Virgil,  —  aH 
these  enchant  him.  And  beside  these  are  the  things  of 
to-day,  —  the  luscious  melons,  the  oranges,  the  figs,  the 
war-ships  lying  on  the  bay,  the  bloody  miracle  of  St. 
Januarius,  the  Lazzaroni  upon  the  church  steps,  the  pro 
cessions  of  friars,  and  always  the  window  of  his  cham 
ber,  looking  one  way  upon  blue  Capri,  and  the  other 
upon  smouldering  Vesuvius. 

At  Naples  Reuben  hears  from  the  captain  of  the  Me 
teor  —  in  which  good  ship  he  has  made  his  voyage,  and 
counts  upon  making  his  return  —  that  the  vessel  can 
take  up  half  her  cargo  at  a  better  freight  by  touching 
at  Marseilles.  "Whereupon  Reuben  orders  him  to  go 
thither,  promising  to  join  him  at  that  port  in  a  fortnight. 
A  fortnight  only  for  Rome,  for  Florence,  for  Pisa,  for  the 
City  of  Palaces,  and  then  the  marvelous  Cornice  road 
along  the  shores  of  the  sea.  Terraciua  brought  back  to 
him  the  story  of  Mr.  Alderman  Popkins  and  the  Prin- 
cipessa,  and  the  bandits  ;  after  this  came  the  heights  of 
Albano  and  Soracte,  and  there,  at  last,  the  Tiber,  the 
pyramid  tomb,  the  great  church  dome,  the  stone  pines 
of  the  Janiculan  hill,  —  Rome  itself.  Reuben  was  not 
strong  or  curious  in  his  classics  ;  the  galleries  and  the 
churches  took  a  deeper  hold  upon  him  than  the  Forum 


392  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

and  the  ruins.  He  wandered  for  hours  together  under 
the  arches  of  St.  Peter's.  He  wished  he  might  have 
led  the  Doctor  along  its  pavement  into  the  very  presence 
of  the  mysteries  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  Babylon.  He 
wished  Miss  Almira,  with  her  saffron  ribbons,  might  be 
there,  sniffing  at  her  little  phial  of  salts,  and  may  be 
singing  treble.  The  very  meeting-house  upon  the  green, 
that  was  so  held  in  reverence,  with  its  belfry  and  spire 
atop,  would  hardly  make  a  scaffolding  from  which  to 
brush  the  cobwebs  from  the  frieze  below  the  vaulting  of 
this  grandest  of  temples.  Oddly  enough,  he  fancies 
Deacon  Tourtelot,  in  his  snuff-colored  surtout,  pacing 
down  the  nave  with  him,  and  saying,  —  as  he  would  be 
like  to  say,  —  "Must  ha'  been  a  smart  man  that  built  it ; 
but  I  guess  they  don't  have  better  preachin',  as  a  gineral 
thing,  than  the  old  Doctor  gives  us  on  Fast-Days  or  in 
'protracted'  meetin's." 

Such  queer  humors  and  droll  comparisons  flash  into 
the  mind  of  Keuben,  even  under  all  his  sense  of  awe,  - 
a  swift,  disorderly  mingling  of  the  themes  and  offices 
which  kindled  his  first  sense  of  religious  awe  under  a 
home  atmosphere  with  the  wondrous  forms  and  splen 
dor  which  kindle  a  new  awe  now.  The  great  dome  en- 
walling  with  glittering  mosaics  a  heaven  of  its  own,  and 
blazing  with  figured  saints,  and  the  golden  distich, 
"  Thou  art  Peter,  —  to  thee  will  I  give  the  keys  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven," — all  this  seems  too  grand  to  be 
untrue.  Are  not  the  keys  verily  here  ?  Can  falsehood 
build  up  so  august  a  lie  ?  A  couple  of  friars  shuffle  past 
him,  and  go  to  their  prayers  at  some  near  altar  ;  he  does 


REUBEN  AT  ROME.  393 

not  even  smile  at  their  shaven  pates  and  their  dowdy, 
coarse  gowns  of  serge.  Low  music  from  some  far-away 
chapel  comes  floating  under  the  paneled  vaultings,  and 
loses  itself  under  the  great  dome,  with  a  sound  so  gen 
tle,  so  full  of  entreaty,  that  it  seems  to  him  the  dove  on 
the  high  altar  might  have  made  it  with  a  cooing  and  a 
flutter  of  her  white  wings.  A  mother  and  two  daugh 
ters,  in  black,  glide  past  him,  and  drop  upon  their  knees 
before  some  saintly  shrine,  and  murmur  their  thanks 
givings,  or  their  entreaty.  And  he,  with  no  aim  of  wor 
ship,  yet  somehow  shocked  out  of  his  unbelief  by  the 
very  material  influences  around  him. 

Reuben's  old  wranglings  and  struggles  with  doubt  had 
ended  —  where  so  many  are  apt  to  end,  when  the  world 
is  sunny  and  success  weaves  its  silken  meshes  for  the 
disport  of  self  —  in  a  quiet  disbelief  that  angered  him  no 
longer,  because  he  had  given  over  all  fight  with  it.  But 
the  great  dome,  flaming  with  its  letters,  JEdificabo  meam 
Ecdesiam,  shining  there  for  ages,  kindled  the  fight  anew. 
And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  and  perplexing  as  it  was  to 
the  Doctor  (when  he  received  Reuben's  story  of  it),  he 
came  out  from  his  first  visit  to  the  great  Romish  temple 
with  his  religious  nature  more  deeply  stirred  than  it  had 
been  for  years. 

jEckficabo  meam  Ecdesiam.  He  had  uttered  it. 
There  was  then  something  to  build,  —  something  that 
had  been  built,  at  whose  shrine  millions  worshiped 
trustingly. 

Under  the  somber  vaultings  of  the  great  Florentine 
Cathedral,  the  impression  was  not  weakened.  The  au- 


394  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

stere  gloom  of  it  chimed  more  nearly  with  his  state  of 
unrest.  Then  there  are  the  galleries,  the  painted  ceil 
ings, —  angels,  saints,  martyrs,  holy  families,  —  can  art 
have  been  leashed  through  so  many  ages  with  a  pleasant 
fiction  ?  Is  there  not  somewhere  at  bottom  an  earnest, 
vital  truth,  which  men  must  needs  cling  by  if  they  be 
healthful  and  earnest  themselves  ?  Even  the  meretri 
cious  adornments  of  the  churches  of  Genoa  afford  new 
evidence  of  the  way  in  which  the  heart  of  a  people  has 
lavished  itself  upon  belief  ;  and  if  belief,  why,  then, 
hope. 

Upon  the  Cornice  road,  with  Italy  behind  him  and 
home"  before  (such  home  as  he  knows),  he  thinks  once 
jQore  of  those  he  has  left.  Not  that  he  has  forgotten 
them  altogether  ;  he  has  purchased  a  rich  coral  necklace 
in  Naples,  which  will  be  the  very  thing  for  his  old  friend 
Hose  ;  and,  in  Rome,  the  richest  cameos  to  be  found  in 
the  Via  Condotti  he  has  secured  for  Adele  ;  even  for 
Aunt  Eliza  he  has  brought  away  from  Florence  a  bit  of 
the  pietra  dura,  a  few  olive-leaves  upon  a  black  ground. 
Nor  has  he  forgotten  a  rich  piece  of  the  Genoese  velvet 
for  Mrs.  Brindlock ;  and,  for  his  father,  an  old  missal, 
which,  he  trusts,  dates  back  far  enough  to  save  it  from  the 
odium  he  attaches  to  the  present  Church,  and  to  give  it 
an  early  Christian  sanctity.  He  has  counted  upon  see 
ing  Mr.  Maverick  at  Marseilles,  but  learns,  with  surprise, 
upon  his  arrival  there,  that  this  gentleman  had  sailed  for 
America  some  months  previously.  The  ship  is  making 
a  capital  freight,  and  the  captain  informs  him  that  appli 
cation  has  been  made  for  the  only  vacant  state-room  in 


THE    VOYAGE.  395 

their  little  cabin  by  a  lady  attended  by  her  maid.  Keu- 
ben  assents  cheerfully  to  this  accession  of  companion 
ship  ;  and,  running  off  for  a  sight  of  the  ruins  at  Xismes 
and  Aries,  returns  only  in  time  to  catch  the  ship  upon 
the  day  of  its  departure.  As  they  pass  out  of  harbor, 
the  lady  passenger,  in  deep  black,  (the  face  seems  half 
familiar  to  him,)  watches  wistfully  the  receding  shores, 
and  as  they  run  abreast  the  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde,  she  devoutly  crosses  herself  and  tells  her  beads. 

Reuben  is  to  make  the  voyage  with  the  mother  of 
Adele.  Both  bound  to  the  same  quiet  township  of  Xew 
England  ;  he,  to  reach  Ashfield  once  more,  there  to  un 
dergo  swiftly  a  new  experience,  —  an  experience  that 
can  come  to  no  man  but  once  ;  she,  to  be  clasped  in  the 
arms  of  Adele,  —  a  cold  embrace  and  the  last ! 


Lxm. 

The  Voyage. 

ETTBEN  had  heard  latterly  very  little  of  domestic 
affairs  at  Ashfield.  He  knew  scarce  more  of  the 
family  relations  of  Adele  than  was  covered  by  that  con 
fidential  announcement  of  the  parson's  which  had  so  set 
on  fire  his  generous  zeal.  The  spinster,  indeed,  in  one 
of  her  later  letters  had  hinted,  in  a  roundabout  manner, 
that  Adele's  family  misfortunes  were  not  looking  so 
badly  as  they  once  did,  —  that  the  poor  girl  (she  be 
lieved)  felt  tenderly  still  toward  her  old  playmate,  —  and 


39^  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

that  Mr.  Maverick  was,  beyond  all  question,  a  gentle 
man  of  very  easy  fortune.  But  Eeuben  was  not  in  a 
mood  to  be  caught  by  any  chaff  administered  by  his 
most  respectable  aunt.  If,  indeed,  he  had  known  all,  — 
if  that  hearty  burst  of  Adele's  gratitude  had  come  to  him, 
—  if  he  could  once  have  met  her  with  the  old  freedom  of 
manner,  —  ah  !  then  —  then  — 

But  no  ;  he  thinks  of  her  now  as  one  under  social 
blight,  which  he  would  have  lifted  or  borne  with  her 
had  not  her  religious  squeamishness  forbidden.  He 
tries  to  forget  what  was  most  charming  in  her,  and  has 
succeeded  passably  well. 

"I  suppose  she  is  still  modeling  her  heroes  on  the 
Catechism,"  he  thought,  "  and  Phil  will  very  likely  pass 
muster." 

The  name  of  Madame  Maverick  as  attaching  to  their 
fellow-passenger  —  which  came  to  his  ear  for  the  first 
time  on  the  second  day  out  from  port  —  considerably 
startled  him.  Madame  Maverick  is,  he  learns,  on  her 
way  to  join  her  husband  and  child  in  America.  But  he 
is  by  no  means  disposed  to  entertain  a  very  exalted  re 
spect  for  any  claimant  of  such  name  and  title.  He  finds, 
indeed,  the  prejudices  of  his  education  (so  he  calls  them) 
asserting  themselves  with  a  fiery  heat ;  and  most  of  all 
he  is  astounded  by  the  artfully  arranged  religious  drapery 
with  which  this  poor  woman  —  as  it  appears  to  him  — 
seeks  to  cover  her  shortcomings.  He  had  brought 
away  from  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  cathedrals  a  cer 
tain  quickened  religious  sentiment,  by  the  aid  of  which 
he  had  grown  into  a  respect,  not  only  for  the  Romish 


THE    VOYAGE.  397 

faith,  but  for  Christian  faith  of  whatever  degree.  And 
now  he  encountered  what  seemed  to  him  its  gross  pros 
titution.  The  old  Doctor  then  was  right  :  this  Popish 
form  of  heathenism  was  but  a  device  of  Satan,  —  a  scar 
let  covering  of  iniquity.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  match 
the  present  hypocrisy  with  hypocrisies  that  he  had  seen 
of  old. 

Meantime,  the  good  ship  Meteor  was  skirting  the 
shores  of  Spain,  and  had  make  a  good  hundred  leagues 
of  her  voyage  before  Reuben  had  ventured  to  make  him 
self  known  as  the  old  schoolmate  and  friend  of  the  child 
whom  Madame  Maverick  was  on  her  way  to  greet  after 
so  many  years  of  separation.  The  truth  was,  that  Reu 
ben,  his  first  disgust  being  overcome,  could  not  shake 
off  the  influence  of  something  attractive  and  winning  in 
the  manner  of  Madame  Maverick.  In  her  step  and  in 
her  lithe  figure  he  saw  the  step  and  figure  of  Adele.  All 
her  orisons  and  aves,  which  she  failed  not  to  murmur 
each  morning  and  evening,  were  reminders  of  the  earnest 
faith  of  her  poor  child.  It  is  impossible  to  treat  her 
with  disrespect.  Nay,  it  is  impossible,  —  as  Reuben  be 
gins  to  associate  more  intimately  the  figure  and  the  voice 
of  this  quiet  lady  with  his  memories  of  another  and  a 
younger  one,  —  quite  impossible,  that  he  should  not  feel 
his  whole  chivalrous  nature  stirred  in  him,  and  become 
prodigal  of  attentions.  If  there  were  hypocrisy,  it  some 
how  cheated  him  into  reverence. 

The  lady  is,  of  course,  astounded  at  Reuben's  dis 
closure  to  her.  "  Mon  Dieu  !  you,  then,  are  the  son  of 
that  good  priest  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much  !  And 


398  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

you  are  Puritan?  I  would  not  have  thought  that. 
They  love  the  vanities  of  the  world  then,"  —  and  her  eye 
flashed  over  the  well-appointed  dress  of  Reuben,  who 
felt  half  an  inclination  to  hide,  if  it  had  been  possible, 
the  cluster  of  garish  charms  which  hung  at  his  watch- 
chain.  "  You  have  shown  great  kindness  to  my  child, 
Monsieur.  I  thank  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

"  She  is  very  charming,  Madame,"  said  Reuben,  in  an 
easy,  degage  manner,  which,  to  tell  truth,  he  put  on  to 
cover  a  little  embarrassing  revival  of  his  old  sentiment. 

Madame  Maverick  looked  at  him  keenly.  "Describe 
her  to  me,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  Monsieur." 

Whereupon  Reuben  ran  on,  —  jauntily,  at  first,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  ballet-girl  of  San  Carlo  whose  picture  he 
was  making  out ;  but  his  old  hearty  warmth  declared 
itself  by  degrees  ;  and  his  admiration  and  his  tenderness 
gave  such  warm  color  to  his  language  as  it  might  have 
shown  if  her  little  gloved  hand  had  been  shivering  even 
then  in  his  own  passionate  clasp.  And  as  he  closed, 
with  a  great  glow  upon  his  face,  Madame  Maverick  burst 
forth,  - 

"  Mon  Dieu,  how  I  love  her  !  Yet  is  it  not  a  thing 
astonishing  that  I  should  ask  you,  a  stranger,  Monsieur, 
how  my  own  child  is  looking  ?  Culpa  mea !  Culpa 
mea !  "  and  she  clutched  at  her  rosary,  and  mumbled 
an  ave,  with  her  eyes  lifted  and  streaming  tears. 

Reuben  looked  upon  her  in  wonder,  amazed  at  the 
depth  of  her  emotion. 

"  2fenez  /  "  said  she,  recovering  herself,  and  reading, 
as  it  were,  his  doubts.  "  You  count  these  "  (lifting  her 


THE    VOYAGE.  399 

rosary)  "  baubles  yonder,  and  our  prayers  pagan  prayers; 
my  husband  has  told  me,  and  that  she,  Adele,  is  taught 
thus,  and  that  the  Bon  Dien  has  forsaken  our  Holy 
Church,  —  that  He  conies  near  now  only  to  your  —  what 
shall  I  call  them  ?  —  meeting-houses  ?  Tell  me,  Mon 
sieur,  does  Adele  think  this  ? " 

"I  think,"  said  Reuben,  "that  your  daughter  would 
have  charity  for  any  religious  faith  which  was  earnest." 

"Charity!  Mon  Dieu!  Charity  for  sins,  charity  for 
failings,  —  yes,  I  ask  it ;  but  for  my  faith  !  No,  Mon 
sieur,  no  —  no  —  a  thousand  times,  no  ! " 

"This  is  real,"  thought  Reuben. 

"  Tell  me,  Monsieur,"  continued  she,  with  a  heat  of 
language  that  excited  his  admiration,  "  what  is  it  you 
believe  there  ?  What  is  the  horror  against  which  your 
New  England  teachers  would  warn  my  poor  Adele? 
May  the  Blessed  Virgin  be  near  her  !  " 

Whereupon,  Reuben  undertook  to  lay  down  the 
grounds  of  distrust  in  which  he  had  been  educated  ; 
not,  surely,  with  the  fervor  or  the  logical  sequence 
which  the  old  Doctor  would  have  given  to  the  same, 
but  yet  inveighing  in  good  set  terms  against  the  vain 
ceremonials,  the  idolatries,  the  mummeries,  the  confes 
sional,  the  empty  absolution  ;  and  summing  up  all  with 
the  formula  (may  be  he  had  heard  the  Doctor  use  the 
same  language)  that  the  piety  of  the  Romanist  was  not 
so  much  a  deep  religious  conviction  of  the  truth,  as  a 
sentiment. 

"  Sentiment !  "  exclaims  Madame  Maverick.  "  What 
else  ?  What  but  love  of  the  good  God  ?  " 


400  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

But  not  so  much  by  her  talk  as  by  the  everyday  sight 
of  her  serene,  unfaltering  devotion  is  Reuben  won  into  a 
deep  respect  for  her  faith. 

Those  are  rare  days  and  rare  nights  for  him,  as  the 
good  ship  Meteor  slips  down  past  the  shores  of  Spain  to 
the  Straits,  —  days  all  sunny,  nights  moonlit.  To  the 
right, —  not  discernible,  but  he  knows  they  are  there,  — 
the  swelling  hills  of  Catalonia  and  of  Andalusia,  the  mar 
velous  Moorish  ruins,  the  murmurs  of  the  Guadalquivir  ; 
to  the  left,  a  broad  sweep  of  burnished  sea,  on  which, 
late  into  the  night,  the  moon  pours  a  stream  of  molten 
silver,  that  comes  rocking  and  widening  toward  him, 
and  vanishes  in  the  shadow  of  the  ship.  The  cruise 
has  been  a  splendid  venture  for  him,  — twenty-five  thou 
sand  at  the  least.  And  as  he  paces  the  decks,  —  in  the 
view  only  of  the  silent  man  at  the  wheel  and  of  the  silent 
stars,  —  he  forecasts  again  the  palaces  he  will  build. 
The  feeble  Doctor  shall  have  ease  and  every  luxury  ;  he 
will  be  gracious  in  his  charities  ;  he  will  astonish  the  old 
people  by  his  affluence  ;  he  will  live  — 

Just  here,  he  spies  a  female  figure  stealing  from  the 
companion-way,  and  gliding  beyond  the  shelter  of  the 
wheel-house.  Half  concealed  as  he  chances  to  be  in  the 
shadow  of  the  rigging,  he  sees  her  fall  upon  her  knees, 
and,  with  head  uplifted,  cross  her  hands  upon  her  bosom. 
'T  is  a  short  prayer,  and  the  instant  after  she  glides 
below. 

"  Good  God  !  what  trust !  "  —  it  is  an  ejaculatory 
prayer  of  Reuben's,  rather  than  an  oath.  And  with  it, 
swift  as  the  wind,  comes  a  drearv  sense  of  unrest.  The 


THE    VOYAGE.  401 

palaces  he  had  built  vanish.  The  stars  blink  upon  him 
kindly,  and  from  their  wondrous  depths  challenge  his 
thought.  The  sea  swashes  idly  against  the  floating  ship. 
He  too  afloat,  —  afloat.  Whither  bound  ?  Yearning 
still  for  a  belief  on  which  he  may  repose.  And  he  be 
thinks  himself,  —  does  it  lie  somewhere  under  the  harsh 
and  dogmatic  utterances  of  the  Ashfield  pulpit  ?  At  the 
thought,  he  recalls  the  weary  iteration  of  cumbersome 
formulas,  that  passed  through  his  brain  like  leaden  plum 
mets,  and  the  swift  lashings  of  rebuke,  if  he  but  reached 
over  for  a  single  worldly  floweret,  blooming  beside  the 
narrow  path  ;  and  yet,  — and  yet,  from  the  leaden  atmos 
phere  of  that  past,  saintly  faces  beam  upon  him,  —  a 
mother's,  Adele's,  —  nay,  the  kindly  fixed  gray  eyes  of 
the  old  Doctor  glow  upon  him  with  a  fire  that  must  have 
been  kindled  with  truth. 

Does  it  He  in  the  melodious  cues,  and  under  the  robes 
of  Rome  ?  The  sordid  friars,  with  their  shaven  pates, 
grin  at  him  ;  some  Rabelais  head  of  a  priest  in  the  con 
fessional-stall  leers  at  him  with  mocker}* :  and  yet  the 
golden  letters  of  the  great  dome  gleam  again  with  their 
blazing  legend,  and  the  figure  of  the  Magdalen  yonder 
has  just  now  murmured,  in  tones  that  must  surely  have 
reached  a  gracious  ear,  — 

"Tibi  Christe,  redemptori, 
Xostro  vero  salvatori !  " 

Is  the  truth  between  ?     Is  it  in  both  ?     Is  it  real  ?     And 
if  real,  why  may  not  the  same  lips  declare  it  under  the 
cathedral  or  the  meeting-house  roof? 
2fi 


402  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

LXIV. 

A   Wreck. 

rMH-bi  Meteor  is  a  snug  ship,  well  found,  well  manned, 
-*-  and,  as  the  times  go,  well  officered.  The  captain, 
indeed,  is  not  over-alert  or  fitted  for  high  emergencies  ; 
but  what  emergencies  can  belong  to  so  placid  a  voyage  ? 
For  a  week  after  the  headlands  of  Tarifa  and  Spartel 
have  sunk  under  the  eastern  horizon,  the  vessel  is  kept 
every  day  upon  her  course,  —  her  top-gallant  and  stud 
ding  sails  all  distent  with  the  wind  blowing  freely  from 
over  Biscay.  After  this  come  light,  baffling,  westerly 
breezes,  with  sometimes  a  clear  sky,  and  then  all  is 
overclouded  by  the  drifting  trade-mists.  Zigzagging 
on,  quietly  as  ever,  save  the  bustle  and  whiz  and  flap 
ping  canvas  of  the  ship  "in  stays,"  the  good  Meteor 
pushes  gradually  westward. 

Meantime  a  singular  and  almost  tender  intimacy  grew 
up  between  Reuben  and  the  lady  voyager.  It  is  always 
agreeable  to  a  young  man  to  find  a  listening  ear  in  a 
lady  whose  age  puts  her  out  of  the  range  of  any  flurry 
of  sentiment,  and  whose  sympathy  gives  kindly  welcome 
to  his  confidence.  All  that  early  life  of  his  he  detailed 
to  her  with  a  particularity  and  a  warmth  (himself  un 
conscious  of  the  warmth)  which  brought  the  childish  as 
sociations  of  her  daughter  fresh  to  the  mind  of  poor 
Madame  Maverick.  No  wonder  that  she  gave  a  willing 


A    WRECK.  403 

ear !  no  wonder  that  the  glow  of  his  language  kindled 
her  sympathy  !  Nor  with  such  a  listener  does  he  stop 
with  the  boyish  life  of  Ashfield.  He  unfolds  his  city 
career,  and  the  bright  promises  that  are  before  him,  — 
promises  of  business  success,  which  (he  would  make  it 
appear)  are  all  that  fill  his  heart  now.  In  the  pride  of 
his  twenty-five  years  he  loves  to  represent  himself  as 
blase  in  sentiment. 

Madame  Maverick  has  been  taught,  in  these  latter 
years,  a  large  amount  of  self-control ;  so  she  can  listen 
with  a  grave,  nay,  even  a  kindly  face,  to  Reuben's  sweep 
ing  declarations.  And  if,  at  a  hint  from  her,  —  which 
he  shrewdly  counts  Jesuitical,  —  his  thought  is  turned 
in  the  direction  of  his  religious  experiences,  he  has  his 
axioms,  his  common-sense  formulas,  his  irreproachable 
coolness,  and,  at  times,  a  noisy  show  of  distrust,  under 
which  it  is  easy  to  see  an  eager  groping  after  the  ends 
of  that  great  tangled  skein  of  thought  within,  which  is 
a  weariness. 

"If  you  could  only  have  a  talk  with  Father  Ambrose  ! " 
says  Madame  Maverick  with  half  a  sigh. 

"  I  should  like  that  of  all  things,"  says  Reuben,  with 
a  touch  of  merriment.  "  I  suppose  he  's  a  jolly  old  fel 
low,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  full  of  humor.  By  Jove  ! 
there  go  the  beads  again  !  "  (He  says  this  latter  to 
himself,  however,  as  he  sees  the  nervous  fingers  of  the 
poor  lady  plying  her  rosary,  and  her  lips  murmuring 
some  catch  of  a  prayer.) 

Yet  he  cannot  but  respect  her  devotion  profoundly, 
wondering  how  it  can  have  grown  up  under  the  hea- 


404  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

then  isms  of  her  life  ;  wondering  perhaps,  too,  how  his 
own  heathenism  could  have  grown  up  under  the  roof  of 
a  parsonage.  It  will  be  an  odd  encounter,  he  thinks,  for 
this  woman,  with  the  people  of  Ashfield,  with  the  Doc 
tor,  with  Adele. 

There  are  gales,  but  the  good  ship  rides  them  out 
jauntily,  with  but  a  single  reef  in  her  topsails.  "Within 
five  weeks  from  the  date  of  her  leaving  Marseilles  she  is 
within  a  few  days'  sail  of  New  York.  A  few  days'  sail ! 
It  may  mean  over-much  ;  for  there  are  mists  and  hazy 
weather,  which  forbid  any  observation.  The  last  was 
taken  a  hundred  miles  to  the  eastward  of  George's  Shoal. 
Under  an  easy  off-shore  wind  the  ship  is  beating  westward. 
But  the  clouds  hang  low,  and  there  is  no  opportunity  for 
determining  position.  At  last,  one  evening,  there  is  a  lit 
tle  lift,  and,  for  a  moment  only,  a  bright  light  blazes  over 
the  starboard  bow.  The  captain  counts  it  a  light  upon 
one  of  the  headlands  of  the  Jersey  shore  ;  and  he  orders 
the  helmsman  (she  is  sailing  in  the  eye  of  an  easy  westerly 
breeze)  to  give  her  a  couple  of  points  more  "  northing  ; " 
and  the  yards  and  sheets  are  trimmed  accordingly.  The 
ship  pushes  on  more  steadily  as  she  opens  to  the  wind, 
and  the  mists  and  coming  night  conceal  all  around  them. 

"What  do  you  make  of  the  light,  Mr.  Yardley  ?"  says 
the  captain,  addressing  the  mate. 

"  Can't  say,  sir,  with  such  a  bit  of  a  look.  If  it  should 
be  Fire  Island,  we're  in  a  bad  course,  sir." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 
"  Put  a  man  in  the  chains,  Mr.  Yardley,  and  give  us  the 
water." 


A    WRECK.  405 

"I  hope  we  shall  be  in  the  bay  by  morning,  Captain/' 
said  Reuben,  who  stood  smoking  leisurely  near  the 
wheel.  But  the  captain  was  preoccupied,  and  answered 
nothing. 

A  little  after,  a  voice  from  the  chains  came  chanting 
full  and  loud,  "  By  the  mark  —  nine  !  " 

"This '11  never  do,  Mr.  Yardley/'  said  the  captain, 
"Jersey  shore  or  any  other.  Let  all  hands  keep  by 
to  put  the  ship  about." 

A  voice  forward  was  heard  to  say  something  of  a  roar 
that  sounded  like  the  beat  of  surf  ;  at  which  the  mate 
stepped  to  the  side  of  the  ship  and  listened  anxiously. 

"It's  true,  sir,"  said  he,  coming  aft.  "Captain, 
there  's  something  very  like  the  beat  of  surf,  here  away 
to  the  no'th'ard." 

A  nutter  in  the  canvas  caught  the  captain's  attention. 
"It's  the  wind  slacking  ;  there  's  a  bare  capful,"  said  the 
mate,  "  and  I  'm  afeard  there  's  mischief  brewing  yon 
der."  He  pointed  as  he  spoke  a  little  to  the  south  of 
east,  where  the  darkness  seemed  to  be  giving  way  to  a 
luminous  gray  cloud  of  mi  at-. 

"  And  a  half  —  six ! "  shouts  again  the  man  in  the 
chains. 

The  captain  meets  it  with  a  swelling  oath,  which  be 
trays  clearly  enough  his  anxiety.  "  There  's  not  a  mo 
ment  to  lose,  Yardley  ;  see  all  ready  there  !  Keep  her 
a  good  full,  my  boy  !  "  (to  the  man  at  the  wheel.) 

The  darkness  was  profound.  Reuben,  not  a  little 
startled  by  the  new  aspect  of  affairs,  still  kept  his  place 
upon  the  quarter-deck.  He  saw  objects  flitting  across 


4o6  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

the  waist  of  the  ship,  and  heard  distinctly  the  coils  flung 
down  with  a  clang  upon  the  wet  decks.  There  was 
something  weird  and  ghostly  in  those  half -seen  figures, 
in  the  indistinct  maze  of  cordage  and  canvas  above,  and 
the  phosphorescent  streaks  of  spray  streaming  away 
from  either  bow. 

"  Are  you  ready  there  ?  "  says  the  captain. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  responds  the  mate. 

"  Put  your  helm  a-lee,  my  man  !  —  Hard  down  !  " 

"  Hard  down  it  is,  sir  !  " 

The  ship  veers  up  into  the  wind  ;  and,  as  the  cap 
tain  shouts  his  order,  "  Mainsail  haul  !  "  the  canvas 
shakes  ;  the  long,  cumbrous  yard  groans  upon  its  bear 
ings  ;  there  is  a  great  whizzing  of  the  cordage  through 
the  blocks  ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  —  coming  keenly 
to  the  captain's  ear,  —  a  voice  from  the  fore-hatch  ex 
claims,  "  By  G — ,  she  touches  !  " 

The  next  moment  proved  it  true.  The  good  ship 
minded  her  helm  no  more.  The  fore-yards  are  brought 
round  by  the  run  and  the  mizzen,  but  the  light  wind  — 
growing  lighter  —  hardly  clears  the  flapping  canvas  from 
the  spars. 

In  the  sunshine,  with  so  moderate  a  sea,  't  would 
seem  little  ;  in  so  little  depth  of  water  they  might  warp 
her  off ;  but  the  darkness  magnifies  the  danger  ;  besides 
which,  an  ominous  sighing  and  murmur  are  coming  from 
that  luminous  misty  mass  to  the  southward.  Through 
all  this,  Keuben  has  continued  smoking  upon  the  quar 
ter-deck  ;  a  landsman  under  a  light  wind,  and  with  a 
light  sea,  hardly  estimates  at  their  true  worth  such  in^ 


A    WRECK.  407 

timations  as  had  been  given  of  the  near  breaking  of  the 
surf,  and  of  the  shoaling  water.  Even  the  touch  upon 
bottom,  of  which  the  grating  evidence  had  come  home 
to  his  own  perceptions,  brought  up  more  the  fate  of 
his  business  venture  than  any  sense  of  personal  peril. 
We  can  surely  warp  her  off  in  the  morning,  he  thought ; 
or,  if  the  worst  came,  insurance  was  full,  and  it  would 
be  easy  boating  to  the  shore. 

"  It 's  lucky  there  's  no  wind,"  said  he  to  Yardley. 

"  Will  you  obleege  me,  Mr.  Johns  ?  Take  a  good 
strong  puff  of  your  cigar,  —  here,  upon  the  larboard 
rail,  sir,"  and  he  took  the  lantern  from  the  companion- 
way  that  he  might  see  the  drift  of  the  smoke.  For  a 
moment  it  lifted  steadily  ;  then,  with  a  toss  it  vanished 
away  —  shoreward.  The  first  angry  puffs  of  the  south 
easter  were  coming. 

The  captain  had  seen  all,  and  with  an  excited  voice  said, 
"  Mr.  Yardley,  clew  up,  fore  and  aft,  —  clew  up  every 
thing  ;  put  all  snug,  and  make  ready  the  best  bower." 

"Mr.  Johns,"  said  he,  approaching  Reuben,  "we  are 
on  a  lee  shore  ;  it  should  be  Long  Islind  beach  by  the 
soundings ;  with  calm  weather,  and  a  kedge,  we  might 
work  her  off  with  the  lift  of  the  tide.  But  the  Devil 
and  all  is  in  that  puff  from  the  sou'east." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  can  anchor,"  says  Reuben. 

"  Yes,  we  can  anchor,  Mr.  Johns  ;  but  if  that  sou' 
easter  turns  out  the  gale  it  promises,  the  best  anchor 
aboard  won't  be  so  good  as  a  gridiron." 

"  Do  you  advise  taking  to  the  boats,  then  ?  "  asked 
Reuben,  a  little  nervously. 


408  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

"I  advise  nothing,  Mr.  Johns.  Do  you  hear  the  mur 
mur  of  the  surf  yonder?  It 's  bad  landing  under  such 
a  pounding  of  the  surf,  with  daylight  ;  in  the  dark, 
where  one  can't  catch  the  drift  of  the  waves,  it  might  be 
-  hell !  " 

The  word  startled  Reuben.  His  philosophy  had  al 
ways  contemplated  death  at  a  distance,  toward  which 
easy  and  gradual  approaches  might  be  made  :  but  here 
it  was,  now,  at  a  cable's  length  ! 

And  yet  it  was  very  strange  ;  the  sea  was  not  high  ; 
no  gale  as  yet ;  only  an  occasional  grating  chump  of  the 
keel  was  a  reminder  that  the  good  Meteor  was  not  still 
afloat.  But  the  darkness  !  Yes,  the  darkness  was  com 
plete,  (hardly  a  sight  even  of  the  topmen  who  were  aloft 
—  as  in  the  sunniest  of  weather  —  stowing  the  canvas,) 
and  to  the  northward  that  groan  and  echo  of  the  re 
sounding  surf ;  to  the  southward,  the  whirling  white  of 
waves  that  are  lifting  now,  topped  with  phosphorescent 
foam. 

The  anchor  is  let  go,  but  even  this  does  not  bring  the 
ship's  head  to  the  wind.  Those  griping  sands  hold  her 
keel  fast. 

Three  hours  more  of  watching,  of  waiting,  of  weary 
anxieties  ;  then  the  force  of  the  rising  gale  strikes  her 
full  abeam,  giving  her  a  great  list  to  shore.  It  is  in  vain 
the  masts  are  cut  away,  and  the  rigging  drifts  free  ;  the 
hulk  lifts  only  to  settle  anew  in  the  grasping  sands. 
Every  old  seaman  upon  her  deck  knows  that  she  is  a 
doomed  ship. 

From  time   to   time,  as   the   crashing   spars  or    the 


A    WRECK.  409 

leaden  thump  upon  the  sands  have  startled  those  below, 
Madame  Maverick  and  her  maid  have  made  their  appear 
ance,  in  a  wild  flutter  of  anxiety,  asking  eager  questions  ; 
(Reuben  alone  can  understand  them  or  answer  them  :) 
but  as  the  southeaster  grows,  as  it  does,  into  a  fury  of 
wind,  and  the  poor  hulk  reels  vainly,  and  is  overlaid 
with  a  torrent  of  biting  salt  spray,  Madame  Maverick 
becomes  calm.  Instinctively,  she  sees  the  worst. 

"'  Could  I  only  clasp  Adele  once  more  in  these  arms, 
I  would  say  cheerfully,  '  Nunc  dimittis.'" 

Reuben  regarded  her  calm  faith  with  a  hungry  eager 
ness.  Not,  indeed,  that  calmness  was  lacking  in  himself. 
Great  danger,  in  many  instances,  sublimates  the  facul 
ties  of  keenly  strung  minds.  But  underneath  his  calm 
ness  there  was  an  unrest,  hungering  for  repose,  —  the 
repose  of  a  fixed  belief.  If  even  then  the  breaking 
waves  had  whelmed  him  in  their  mad  career,  he  would 
have  made  no  wailing  outcry,  but  would  have  clutched 
—  how  eagerly  !  —  at  the  merest  shred  of  that  faith 
which,  in  other  days  and  times,  he  had  seen  illuminate 
the  calm  face  of  the  father.  Something  to  believe,  — 
on  which  to  float  upon  such  a  sea  ! 

But  the  waves  and  winds  make  sport  of  beliefs. 
Prayers  count  nothing  against  that  angry  surge.  Two 
boats  are  already  swept  from  the  davits,  and  are  gone 
upon  the  whirling  waters.  A  third,  with  infinite  pains, 
is  dropped  into  the  yeast.  It  is  hard  to  tell  who  gives 
the  orders.  But,  once  afloat,  there  is  a  rush  upon  it, 
and  away  it  goes,  —  overcrowded,  and  within  eyeshot 
lifts,  turns,  and  a  crowd  of  swimmers  float  for  a  mo- 


410  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ment,  —  one  with  an  oar,  another  with  a  thwart  that 
the  waves  have  torn  out,  —  and  in  the  yeast  of  waters 
they  vanish. 

One  boat  only  remains,  and  it  is  launched  with  more 
careful  handling ;  three  cling  by  the  wreck ;  the  rest 

—  save  only  Madame  Maverick  and  Reuben  —  are  with 
in  her,  as  she  tosses  still  in  the  lee  of  the  vessel. 

"  There  's  room  !  "  cries  some  one  ;  "  jump  quick!  for 
God's  sake !  " 

And  Reuben,  with  some  strange,  generous  impulse, 
seizes  upon  Madame  Maverick,  and  before  she  can  rebel 
or  resist,  has  dropped  her  over  the  rail.  The  men 
grapple  her  and  drag  her  in  ;  but  in  the  next  moment 
the  little  cockle  of  a  boat  is  drifted  yards  away. 

The  few  who  are  left — the  boatswain  among  them 

—  are  toiling  on  the  wet  deck  to  give  a  last  signal  from 
the  little  brass  howitzer  on  the  forecastle.     As  the  sharp 
crack  breaks  on  the   air,  —  a  miniature   sound  in  that 
howl  of  the  storm,  —  the  red  flash  of  the  gun  gives  Reu 
ben,  as  the  boat  lurches  toward  the  wreck  again,  a  last 
glance  of  Madame  Maverick,  —  her  hands  clasped,  her 
eyes  lifted,  and  calm  as  ever.     More  than  ever  too  her 
face  was  like  the  face  of  Adele,  —  such  as  the  face  of 
Adele  must  surely  become,  when  years  have  sobered  her, 
and  her  buoyant  faith   has  ripened  into   calm.     And 
from  that  momentary  glance  of  the  serene  countenance, 
and  that  flashing  associated  memory  of  Adele,  a  subtile, 
mystic  influence  is  born  in  him,  by  which  he  seems  sud 
denly  transfused  with  the  same  trustful  serenity  which 
just  now  he   gazed  upon  with  wonder.     If  indeed  the 


A    WRECK.  411 

poor  lady  is  already  lost,  — he  thinks  it  for  a  moment, 
—  her  spirit  has  fanned  and  cheered  him  as  it  passed. 
Once  more,  as  if  some  mysterious  hand  had  brought 
them  to  his  reach,  he  grapples  with  those  lost  lines  of 
hope  and  trust  which  in  that  youthful  year  of  his  ex 
uberant  emotional  experience  he  had  held  and  lost,  — 
once  more,  now,  in  hand,  —  once  more  he  is  elated 
with  that  wonderful  sense  of  a  religious  poise,  that,  it 
would  seem,  no  doubts  or  terrors  could  overbalance. 

The  boom  of  a  gun  is  heard  to  the  northward.  It 
must  be  from  shore.  There  are  helpers  at  work,  then. 
Some  hope  yet  for  this  narrow  tide  of  life,  which  just 
seemed  losing  itself  in  some  infinite  flow  beyond.  Life 
is,  after  all,  so  sweet !  The  boatswain  forward  labors 
desperately  to  return  an  answering  signal ;  but  the  spray, 
the  slanted  deck,  the  overleaping  waves,  are  too  much 
for  him.  Darkness  and  storm  and  despair  rule  again. 

The  wind,  indeed,  has  fallen ;  the  force  of  the  gale  is 
broken  ;  but  the  waves  are  making  deeper  and  more 
desperate  surges.  The  wreck,  which  had  remained  fixed 
in  the  fury  of  the  wind,  lifts  again  under  the  great  swell 
of  the  sea,  and  is  dashed  anew  and  anew  upon  the  shoal. 
With  every  lift  her  timbers  writhe  and  creak,  and  all 
the  remaining  upper  works  crack  and  burst  open  with 
the  strain. 

Reuben  chances  to  espy  an  old-fashioned  round  life 
buoy  lashed  to  the  taffrail,  and,  cutting  it  loose,  makes 
himself  fast  to  it.  He  overhears  the  boatswain  say, 
yonder  by  the  forecastle,  "  These  thumpings  will  break 
her  in  two  in  an  hour.  Cling  to  a  spar,  Jack." 


412  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

The  gray  light  of  dawn  at  last  breaks,  and  shows  a 
dim  line  of  shore,  on  which  parties  are  moving,  dragging 
some  machine,  with  which  they  hope  to  cast  a  line  over 
the  wreck.  But  the  swell  is  heavier  than  ever,  the  tim 
bers  nearer  to  parting.  At  last  a  flash  of  lurid  light  from 
the  dim  shore-line,  —  a  great  boom  of  sound,  and  a  line 
goes  spinning  out  like  a  spider's  web  up  into  the  gray, 
bleak  sky.  Too  far  !  too  short !  and  the  line  tumbles, 
plashing  into  the  water.  A  new  and  fearful  lift  of  the 
sea  shatters  the  wreck,  the  fore  part  of  the  ship  still 
holding  fast  to  the  sands  ;  but  all  abaft  the  mainmast 
lifts,  surges,  reels,  topples  over  ;  with  the  wreck,  and  in 
the  angry  swirl  and  torment  of  waters,  Reuben  goes 
down. 

LXV. 

The  Saved  and  Lost. 

THAT  morning,  —  it  was  the  22cl  of  September,  in 
the  year  1842,  —  Mr.  Brindlock  came  into  his 
counting-room  some  two  hours  before  noon,  and  says  to 
his  porter  and  factotum,  as  he  enters  the  door,  "Well, 
Roger,  I  suppose  you  '11  be  counting  this  puff  of  a  south 
easter  the  equinoctial,  eh  ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  and  it's  an  awful  one.  The  Meteor's 
gone  ashore  on  Long  Beach  ;  and  there 's  talk  of  young 
Mr.  Johns  being  lost." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Brindlock,  "you  don't  tell 
me  so ! " 


THE  SAVED  AND  LOST.  413 

By  half-past  three  he  was  upon  the  spot  ;  a  little  re- 
mainiDg  fragment  only  of  the  Meteor  hanging  to  the  sands, 
and  a  great  debris  of  bales,  spars,  shattered  timbers, 
bodies,  drifted  along  the  shore,  —  Reuben's  among  them. 

But  he  is  not  dead  ;  at  least  so  say  the  wreckers,  who 
throng  upon  the  beach  ;  the  life-buoy  is  still  fast  to  him, 
though  he  is  fearfully  shattered  and  bruised.  He  is 
borne  away  under  the  orders  of  Brindlock  to  some  near 
house,  and  presently  revives  enough  to  ask  that  he  may 
be  carried  —  "  home." 

As,  in  the  opening  of  this  story,  his  old  grandfather, 
the  Major,  was  borne  away  from  the  scene  of  his  first 
battle  by  easy  stages  homeward,  so  now  the  grandson, 
far  feebler  and  after  more  terrible  encounter  with  death, 
is  carried  by  "  easy  stages "  to  his  home  in  Ashfield. 
Again  the  city,  the  boat,  the  river,  —  with  its  banks  yel 
lowing  with  harvests,  and  brightened  with  the  glowing 
tints  of  autumn  ;  again  the  sluggish  brigs  drifting  down 
with  the  tide,  and  sailors  in  tasseled  caps  leaning  over 
the  bulwarks  ;  again  the  flocks  feeding  leisurely  on  the 
rock-strewn  hills ;  again  the  ferryman,  in  his  broad, 
cumbrous  scow,  oaring  across ;  again  the  stoppage  at 
the  wharf  of  the  little  town,  from  which  the  coach  still 
plies  over  the  hills  to  Ashfield. 

On  the  way  thither,  a  carriage  passes  them,  in  which 
are  Adele  and  her  father.  The  news  of  disaster  flies 
fast ;  they  have  learned  of  the  wreck,  and  the  names  of 
passengers.  They  go  to  learn  what  they  can  of  the 
mother,  whom  the  daughter  has  scarce  known.  The 
passing  is  too  hasty  for  recognition.  Brindlock  arrives 


414  DOCTOR    JOHNS 

at  last  with  his  helpless  charge  at  the  door  of  the  par 
sonage.  The  Doctor  is  overwhelmed  afc  once  with  grief 
and  with  joy.  The  news  had  come  to  him.  and  he  had 
anticipated  the  worst.  But  "  Thank  God  !  '  Joseph,  rny 
son,  is  yet  alive ! '  Still  a  probationer ;  there  is  yet 
hope  that  he  may  be  brought  into  the  fold." 

He  insists  that  he  shall  be  placed  below,  upon  his  own 
bed,  just  out  of  his  study.  For  himself,  he  shall  need 
none  until  the  crisis  is  past.  But  the  crisis  does  not 
pass ;  it  is  hard  to  say  when  it  will.  The  wounds  are 
not  so  much  ;  but  a  low  fever  has  set  in,  (the  physician 
says,)  owing  to  exposure  and  excitement,  and  he  can 
predict  nothing  as  to  the  result.  Even  Aunt  Eliza  is 
warmed  into  unwonted  attention  as  she  sees  that  poor 
battered  hulk  of  humanity  lying  there. 

Days  and  days  pass.  Reuben  hovering  between  life 
and  death  ;  and  the  old  Doctor,  catching  chance  rest 
upon  the  little  cot  they  have  placed  for  him  in  the  study, 
looks  yearningly  by  the  dim  light  of  the  sick-lamp  upon 
that  dove  which  his  lost  Eachel  had  hung  upon  his  wall 
above  the  sword  of  his  father.  He  fancies  that  the  face 
of  Reuben,  pinched  with  suffering,  resembles  more  than 
ever  the  mother.  Of  sickness,  or  of  the  little  offices  of 
friends  which  cheat  it  of  pains,  the  old  gentleman  knows 
nothing  :  sick  souls  only  have  been  his  care.  And  it  is 
pitiful  to  see  his  blundering,  eager  efforts  to  do  some 
thing,  as  he  totters  round  the  sick-chamber,  where  Reu 
ben,  with  very  much  of  youthful  vigor  left  in  him,  makes 
fight  against  the  arch-enemy  who  one  day  conquers  ua 
all.  For  many  days  after  his  arrival  there  is  no  con- 


THE  SAVED  AND   LOST.  415 

sciousness,  —  only  wild  words  (at  times  words  that  sound 
to  the  ears  of  the  good  Doctor  strangely  wicked,  and 
that  make  him  groan  in  spirit),  —  tender  words,  too,  of 
dalliance,  and  eager,  loving  glances,  —  murmurs  of  boy 
ish  things,  of  sunny,  school-day  noonings,  —  hearing 
which,  the  Doctor  thinks  that,  if  this  light  must  go  out, 
it  had  better  have  gone  out  in  those  days  of  comparative 
innocence. 

Over  and  over  the  father  appeals  to  the  village  phy 
sician  to  know  what  the  chances  may  be,  —  to  which 
that  old  gentleman,  fumbling  his  watch-key,  and  look 
ing  grave,  makes  very  doubtful  response.  He  hints  at 
a  possible  undermining  of  the  constitution  in  these  later 
years  of  city  life. 

God  only  knows  what  habits  the  young  man  may 
have  formed  in  these  last  years  ;  surely  the  Doctor  does 
not ;  and  he  tells  the  physician  as  much,  with  a  groan 
of  anguish. 

Meantime,  Maverick  and  Adele  have  gone  upon  their 
melancholy  search  ;  and,  as  they  course  over  the  island 
to  the  southern  beach,  the  sands,  the  plains,  the  houses, 
the  pines,  drift  by  the  eye  of  Adele  as  in  a  dream.  At 
last  she  sees  a  great  reach  of  water,  —  piling  up,  as  it 
rolls  lazily  in  from  seaward,  into  high  walls  of  waves, 
that  are  no  sooner  lifted  than  they  break  and  send  spark 
ling  floods  of  foam  over  the  sands.  Bits  of  wreck,  dark 
clots  of  weed,  are  strewed  here  and  there,  —  stragglers 
scanning  every  noticeable  heap,  every  floating  thing  that 
comes  in. 


4i 6  DOCTOR    JOHNS, 

Is  she  dead  ?  is  she  living  ?  They  have  heard  only  on 
the  way  that  many  bodies  are  lying  in  the  near  houses, 
—  many  bruised  and  suffering  ones ;  while  some  have 
come  safe  to  land,  and  gone  to  their  homes.  They  make 
their  way  from  that  dismal  surf -beaten  shore  to  the  near 
est  house.  There  are  loiterers  about  the  door  ;  and  with 
in,  —  within,  Adele  finds  her  mother  at  last,  clasps  her  to 
her  heart,  kisses  the  poor  dumb  lips  that  will  never  more 
open,  —  never  say  to  her  rapt  ears,  "  My  child  !  my  dar 
ling  !  " 

Maverick  is  touched  as  he  has  never  been  touched  be 
fore  ;  the  age  of  early  sentiment  comes  drifting  back  to 
his  world-haunted  mind ;  nay,  tears  come  to  those  eyes 
that  have  not  known  them  for  years.  The  grief,  the  pas 
sionate,  vain  tenderness  of  Adele,  somehow  seems  to 
sanctify  the  memory  of  the  dead  one  who  lies  before  him, 
her  great  wealth  of  hair  streaming  dank  and  fetterless 
over  the  floor. 

Not  more  tenderly,  scarce  more  tearfully,  could  he 
have  ministered  to  one  who  had  been  his  life-long  com 
panion.  Where  shall  the  poor  lady  be  buried  ?  Adele 
answers  that,  with  eyes  flashing  through  her  tears,— 
nowhere  but  in  Ashfield,  nowhere  except  beside  the  sis 
ter,  Marie. 

It  is  a  dismal  journey  for  the  father  and  the  daughter  ; 
it  is  almost  a  silent  journey.  Does  she  love  him  less  ? 
No,  a  thousand  times,  no.  Does  he  love  her  less  ?  No,  a 
thousand  times,  no.  In  such  presence  love  is  awed  into 
silence.  As  the  mournful  cortege  enters  the  town  of 
Ashfield,  it  passes  the  home  of  that  fatherless  boy,  Ar- 


THE  SAVED  AND   LOST.  417 

thur,  for  whom  Adele  had  shown  such  sympathy.  The 
youngster  is  there  swinging  upon  the  gate,  his  cap  gayly 
set  off  with  feathers,  and  he  looking  wonderingly  upon 
the  bier.  He  sees,  too,  the  sad  face  of  Adele,  and,  by 
some  strange  rush  of  memory,  recalls,  as  he  looks  on 
her,  the  letter  which  she  had  given  him  long  ago,  and 
which  till  then  had  been  forgotten.  He  runs  to  his 
mother  :  it  is  in  his  pocket,  —  it  is  in  that  of  some  sum 
mer  jacket.  At  last  it  is  found  ;  and  the  poor  woman 
herself,  that  very  morning,  with  numberless  apologies, 
delivers  it  at  the  door  of  the  parsonage. 

Phil  is  the  first  to  meet  this  exceptional  funeral  com 
pany,  and  is  the  first  to  tell  Adele  how  Reuben  lies 
stricken  almost  to  death  at  the  parsonage.  She  thanks 
him  :  she  thanks  him  again  for  the  tender  care  which 
he  shows  in  all  relating  to  the  approaching  burial.  We 
never  forget  such  offices. 

Of  course,  the  arrival  of  this  strange  freight  in  Ash- 
field  gives  rise  to  a  world  of  gossip.  We  cannot  follow 
it ;  we  cannot  rehearse  it.  The  poor  woman  is  buried, 
as  Adele  had  wished,  beside  her  sister.  No  De  Pro- 
fundis  except  the  murmur  of  the  winds  through  the 
crimson  and  the  scarlet  leaves  of  later  September. 

The  Tourtelots  have  been  eager  with  their  gossip. 
The  dame  has  queried  if  there  should  not  be  some  town 
demonstration  against  the  burial  of  the  Papist.  But 
the  little  Deacon  has  been  milder  ;  and  we  give  our  last 
glimpse  of  him  —  altogether  characteristic  —  in  a  sug 
gestion  which  he  makes  in  a  friendly  way  to  Squire 
Elderkin,  who  is  the  host  of  the  French  strangers. 
27 


4i 8  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

"  Square,  have  they  ordered  a  moniment  yit  for  Miss 
Maverick  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  'm  aware  of,  Deacon." 

"Waal,  my  newy's  got  a  good  slab  of  Varmont  mar 
ble,  which  he  ordered  for  his  fust  wife  ;  but  the  old 
folks  did  n't  like  it,  and  it 's  in  his  barn  on  the  heater- 
piece.  'T  ain't  engraved,  nor  iiothin'.  If  it  should  suit 
the  Mavericks,  I  dare  say  they  could  git  it  tol'able 
low." 


LXVL 

Last  Scenes. 

REUBEN  is  still  floating  between  death  and  life. 
There  is  doubt  whether  the  master  of  the  long 
course  or  of  the  short  course  will  win.  However  that  may 
be,  his  consciousness  has  returned  ;  and  it  has  been 
with  a  great  glow  of  gratitude  that  the  poor  Doctor  has 
welcomed  that  look  of  recognition  in  his  eye,  —  the  eye 
of  Eachel ! 

He  is  calm,  —  he  knows  all.  That  calmness  which 
had  flashed  into  his  soul  when  last  he  saw  the  serene 
face  of  his  fellow-voyager  upon  that  mad  sea  is  his 
still. 

The  poor  father  had  been  moved  unwontedly  by  that 
unconsciousness  which  was  blind  to  all  his  efforts  at 
spiritual  consolation ;  but  he  is  not  less  moved  when 
he  sees  reason  stirring  again,  —  a  light  of  eager  in 
quiry  in  those  eyes  fearfully  sunken,  but  from  their 


LAST  SCENES.  419 

cavernous  depths  seeing  farther  and  more  keenly  than 
ever. 

"  Adele's  mother,  —  was  she  lost  ?  "  He  whispers  it 
to  the  Doctor  ;  and  Miss  Eliza,  who  is  sewing  yonder, 
is  quickened  into  eager  listening. 

"  Lost !  my  son,  lost !  Lost,  I  apprehend,  in  the 
other  world  as  well  as  this.  I  fear  the  true  light  never 
dawned  upon  her." 

A  faint  smile  —  as  of  one  who  sees  things  others  do 
not  see  —  broke  over  the  face  of  Reuben.  "  'T  is  a 
broad  light,  father  ;  it  reaches  beyond  our  blind  reck 
oning." 

There  was  a  trustfulness  in  his  manner  that  delighted 
the  Doctor.  "  And  you  see  it,  my  son  ?  —  Repentance, 
Justification  by  Faith,  Adoption,  Sanctification  ?  " 

"  Those  words  are  a  weariness  to  me,  father ;  they 
suggest  methods,  dogmas,  perplexities.  Christian  hope, 
pure  and  simple,  I  love  better." 

The  Doctor  is  disturbed ;  he  cannot  rightly  under 
stand  how  one  who  seems  inspired  by  so  calm  a  trust 
—  the  son  of  his  own  loins  too  —  should  find  the  au 
thoritative  declarations  of  the  divines  a  weariness. 

Of  course  the  letter  of  Adele,  which  had  been  so  long 
upon  its  way,  Miss  Eliza  had  handed  to  Reuben  after 
such  time  as  her  caution  suggested,  and  she  had  ex 
plained  to  him  its  long  delay. 

Reading  is  no  easy  matter  for  him  ;  but  he  races 
through  those  delicately  penned  lines  with  quite  a  new 
strength.  The  spinster  sees  the  color  come  and  go 
upon  his  wan  cheek,  and  with  what  a  trembling  eager- 


420  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ness  he  folds  the  letter  at  the  end,  and,  making  a  pain 
ful  effort,  tries  to  thrust  it  under  his  pillow.  The  good 
woman  has  to  aid  him  in  this.  He  thanks  her,  but  says 
nothing  more.  His  fingers  are  toying  nervously  at  a 
bit  of  torn  fringe  upon  the  coverlet.  It  seems  a  relief 
to  him  to  make  the  rent  wider  and  wider.  A  little 
glimpse  of  the  world  has  come  back  to  him,  which  dis 
turbs  the  repose  with  which  but  now  he  would  have 
quitted  it  forever. 

Adele  has  been  into  the  sick-chamber  from  time  to 
time,  —  once  led  away  weeping  by  the  good  Doctor, 
when  the  son  had  fallen  upon  his  wild  talk  of  school 
days  ;  once,  too,  since  consciousness  has  come  to  him 
again,  but  before  her  letter  had  been  read.  He  had 
met  her  with  scarce  more  than  a  touch  of  those  fevered 
fingers,  and  a  hard,  uncertain  quiver  of  a  smile,  which 
had  both  shocked  and  disappointed  the  poor  girl.  She 
thought  he  would  have  spoken  some  friendly  consoling 
word  of  her  mother ;  but  his  heart,  more  than  his 
strength,  failed  him.  Her  mournful,  pitying  eyes  were 
a  reproach  to  him  ;  they  had  haunted  him  through  the 
wakeful  hours  of  two  succeeding  nights,  and  now,  under 
the  light  of  that  laggard  letter,  they  blaze  with  a  new 
and  an  appealing  tenderness.  His  fingers  still  puzzle 
wearily  with  that  tangle  of  the  fringe.  The  noon 
passes.  The  aunt  advises  a  little  broth.  But  no,  his 
strength  is  feeding  itself  on  other  aliment.  The  Doctor 
comes  in  with  a  curiously  awkward  attempt  at  gentle 
ness  and  noiselessness  of  tread,  and,  seeing  his  excited 
condition,  repeats  to  him  some  texts  which  he  believes 


LAST  SCENES.  421 

must  be  consoling.  Reuben  utters  no  open  dissent; 
but  through  and  back  of  all  he  sees  the  tender  eyes  of 
Adele,  which,  for  the  moment,  outshine  the  promises,  of 
at  the  least  illuminate  them  with  a  new  meaning. 

"  I  must  see  Adele,"  he  says  to  the  Doctor  ;  and  the 
message  is  carried,  —  she  herself  presently  bringing  an 
swer,  with  a  rich  glow  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Reuben  has  sent  for  me,"  —  she  murmurs  it  to  her 
self  with  pride  and  joy. 

She  is  in  full  black  now ;  but  never  had  she  looked 
more  radiantly  beautiful  than  when  she  stepped  to  the 
side  of  the  sick-bed,  and  took  the  hand  of  Reuben  with 
an  eager  clasp  —  that  was  met,  and  met  again.  The 
Doctor  is  in  his  study,  (the  open  door  between,)  and  the 
spinster  is  fortunately  just  now  busy  at  some  of  her 
household  duties. 

Reuben  fumbles  under  his  pillow  nervously  for  that 
cherished  bit  of  paper,  (Adele  knows  already  its  history,) 
and  when  he  has  found  it  and  shown  it  (his  thin  fingers 
crumpling  it  nervously)  he  says,  "  Thank  you  for  this, 
Adele  !  " 

She  answers  only  by  clasping  his  hand  with  a  sudden 
mad  pressure  of  content,  while  the  blood  mounted  into 
either  cheek  with  a  rosy  exuberance  that  magnified  her 
beauty  tenfold. 

He  saw  it,  —  he  felt  it  all ;  and  through  her  beaming 
eyes,  so  full  of  tendernes  and  love,  saw  the  world  to 
which  he  had  bidden  adieu  shining  before  him  more 
beguilingly  than  ever.  Yesterday  it  was  a  dim  and 
weary  world  that  he  could  leave  without  a  pang  ;  to-day 


422  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

it  is  a  brilliant  world,  where  hopes,  promises,  joys  pile 
in  splendid  proportions. 

He  tells  her  this.  "  Yesterday  I  would  have  died 
with  scarce  a  regret ;  to-day,  Adele,  I  would  live." 

"  You  will,  you  will,  Reuben ! "  and  she  grappled 
more  and  more  passionately  those  shrunken  fingers. 
"  'T  is  not  hopeless  !  "  (sobbing.) 

"No,  no,  Adele,  darling,  not  hopeless.  The  cloud  is 
lifted,  —  not  hopeless  ! " 

"Thank  God,  thank  God  !  "  said  she,  dropping  upon 
her  knees  beside  him,  and  with  a  smile  of  ecstasy  he 
gathered  that  fair  head  to  his  bosom. 

The  Doctor,  hearing  her  sobs,  came  softly  in.  The 
son's  smile,  as  he  met  his  father's  inquiring  look,  was 
more  than  ever  like  the  smile  of  Eachel.  He  has  been 
telling  the  poor  girl  of  her  mother's  death,  thinks  the 
old  gentleman  ;  yet  the  Doctor  wonders  that  he  could 
have  kept  so  radiant  a  face  with  such  a  story. 

Of  these  things,  however,  Eeuben  goes  on  presently 
to  speak  :  of  his  first  sight  of  the  mother  of  Adele,  and 
of  her  devotional  attitude  as  they  floated  down  past  the 
little  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  to  enter  upon  the  fateful 
voyage  ;  he  recounts  their  talks  upon  the  tranquil  moon 
lit  nights  of  ocean  ;  he  tells  of  the  mother's  eager  listen 
ing  to  his  description  of  her  child. 

"I  did  not  tell  her  the  half,  Adele  ;  yet  she  loved  me 
for  what  I  told  her." 

And  Adele  smiles  through  her  tears. 

At  last  he  comes  to  those  dismal  scenes  of  the  wreck, 
relating  all  with  a  strange  vividness  ;  living  ovei  again, 


LAST  SCENES.  423 

as  it  were,  that  fearful  episode,  till  his  brain  whirled,  his 
self-possession  was  lost,  and  he  broke  out  into  a  torrent 
of  delirious  raving. 

He  sleeps  brokenly  that  night,  and  the  next  day  is 
feebler  than  ever.  The  physician  warns  against  any 
causes  of  excitement.  He  is  calm  only  at  intervals. 
The  old  school -days  seem  present  to  him  again  ;  he 

1]<s  of  his  fight  with  Phil  Elderkiu  as  if  it  happened 

,sterday. 

"Yet  I  like  Phil,"  he  says  (to  himself),  "and  Eose  is 
like  Amanda,  the  divine  Amanda.  No  —  not  she.  I  've 

forgotten  :  it 's  the  French  girL  She's  a Pah  !  who 

cares  ?  She  's  as  pure  as  heaven  ;  she  's  an  angeL 
Adele  !  Adele !  Not  good  enough !  I  'm  not  good 
enough.  Very  well,  very  well,  now  1 11  be  bad  enough  ! 
Clouds,  wrangles,  doubts  !  Is  it  my  fault  ?  Meam  Ec- 
desiam  !  How  they  kneel !  Puppets  !  mummers  !  No, 
not  mummers  ;  they  see  a  Christ.  What  if  they  see 
it  in  a  picture?  You  see  Him  in  words.  Both  in 
earnest.  Belief — belief!  That  is  best.  Adele,  Adele, 
I  believe  ! " 

The  Doctor  is  a  pained  listener  of  this  incoherent  talk 
of  his  son.  "I  am  afraid, — I  am.  afraid,"  he  murmurs 
to  himself,  "that  he  has  no  clear  views  of  the  great 
scheme  of  the  Atonement." 

The  next  day  Reuben  is  himself  once  more,  but  fee 
ble,  to  a  degree  that  startles  the  household.  It  is  a 
charming  morning  of  later  September  ;  the  window  is 
wide  open,  and  the  sick  one  looks  out  over  a  stretch  of 
orchard  (he  knew  its  every  tree),  and  upon  wooded  hills 


424  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

beyond  (he  knew  every  coppice  and  thicket),  and  upon  a 
background  of  sky  over  which  a  few  dappled  white 
clouds  floated  at  rest. 

"  It  is  most  beautiful !  "  said  Reuben. 

"  All  things  that  He  has  made  are  beautiful,"  said  the 
Doctor  ;  and  thereupon  he  seeks  to  explore  his  way  in 
to  the  secrets  of  Reuben's  religious  experience,  —  em 
ploying,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  all  the  Westminster  for 
mulas  by  which  his  own  belief  stood  fast. 

"  Father,  father,  the  words  are  stumbling-blocks  to 
me,"  says  the  son. 

"  I  would  to  God,  Eeuben,  that  I  could  make  my  lan 
guage  always  clear." 

"  No,  father,  no  man  can,  in  measuring  the  Divine 
mysteries.  We  must  carry  this  draggled  earth-dress 
with  us  always,  —  always  in  some  sort  fashionists,  even 
in  our  soberest  opinions.  The  robes  of  light  are  worn 
only  Beyond.  Thought,  at  the  best,  is  hampered  by 
this  clog  of  language,  that  tempts,  obscures,  misleads." 

"And  do  you  see  any  light,  my  son?  " 

"  I  hope  and  tremble.  A  great  light  is  before  me  ;  it 
shines  back  upon  outlines  of  doctrines  and  creeds  where 
I  have  floundered  for  many  a  year." 

"But  some  are  clear,  —  some  are  clear,  Eeuben  !  ** 

"  Before,  all  seems  clear  ;  but  behind  "  — 

"  And  yet,  Reuben,"  (the  Doctor  cannot  forbear  the 
discussion,)  "there  is  the  cross, — Election,  Adoption, 
Sanctification  "  — 

"  Stop,  father  ;  the  cross,  indeed,  with  a  blaze  oi 
glory,  I  see  ;  but  the  teachers  of  this  or  that  special 


LAST  SCENES.  425 

form  of  doctrine  I  see  catching  only  radiations  of  the 
light.  The  men  who  teach,  and  argue,  and  exorcise, 
are  using  human  weapons  ;  the  great  light  only  strikes 
here  and  there  upon  some  sword-point  which  is  nearest 
to  the  cross." 

"He  wanders,"  says  the  Doctor  to  Adele,  who  has 
slipped  in  and  stands  beside  the  sick-bed. 

"  No  wandering,  father  ;  on  the  brink  where  I  stand, 
I  cannot." 

"And  what  do  you  see,  Reuben,  my  boy?"  (tenderly.) 

Is  it  the  presence  of  Adele  that  gives  a  new  fervor,  a 
kind  of  crazy  inspiration  to  his  talk ?  "I  see  the  light- 
hearted  clashing  cymbals ;  and  those  who  love  art,  kneel 
ing  under  blazing  temples  and  shrines  ;  but  the  great 
light  touches  the  gold  no  more  effulgently  than  the 
steeple  of  your  meeting-house,  father,  but  no  less.  I 
see  eyes  of  chanting  girls  streaming  with  joy  in  the 
light ;  and  haggard  men  with  ponderous  foreheads 
working  out  contrivances  to  bridge  the  gap  between  the 
finite  and  the  infinite.  Father,  they  are  no  nearer  to  a 
passage  than  the  radiant  girls  who  chant  and  tell  their 
beads.  Angels  in  all  shapes  of  beauty  flit  o-ver  and  amid 
the  throngs  I  see,  —  in  shape  of  fleecy  clouds  that  fan 
them,  —  in  shape  of  brooks  that  murmur  praise,  —  in 
shape  of  leafy  shadows  that  tremble  and  flicker,  —  in 
shape  of  birds  that  make  a  concert  of  song."  The  birds 
even  then  were  singing,  the  clouds  floating  in  his  eye, 
the  leafy  shadows  trailing  on  the  chamber  floor,  and 
from  the  valley,  the  murmur  of  the  brook  came  to  his 
sensitive  ear. 


426  DOCTOR   JOHNS. 

11  He  wanders,  —  lie  wanders !  "  said  the  poor  Doctor. 

Reuben  turns  to  Adele.  "Adele,  kiss  me  !  "  A  ros^ 
tint  ran  over  her  face  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  him 
with  a  freedom  a  mother  might  have  shown,  —  leaving 
one  hand  toying  caressingly  with  his  hair.  "The  cloud 
is  passing,  Adele,  —  passing  !  God  is  Justice  ;  Christ 
is  Mercy.  In  Him  I  trust." 

"Reuben,  darling,"  says  Adele,  "come  back  to  us !  " 

"  Darling,  —  darling  !  "  he  repeated  with  a  strange, 
eager,  satisfied  smile,  —  so  sweet  a  sound  it  was. 

The  chamber  was  filled  with  the  delightful  perfume  of 
a  violet  bed  beneath  the  window.  Suddenly  there  came 
from  the  Doctor,  whose  old  eyes  caught  sooner  than  any 
the  change,  a  passionate  outcry.  "  Great  God !  Thy 
will  be  done  ! " 

With  that  one  loud,  clear  utterance,  his  firmness  gave 
way,  —  for  the  first  time  in  sixty  years  broke  utterly ; 
and  big  tears  streamed  down  his  face  as  he  gazed  yearn 
ingly  upon  the  dead  body  of  his  first-born. 


Lxvn. 

The  End. 

IN  the  autumn  of  1845,  three  years  after  the  incidents 
related  in  our  last  chapter,  Mr.  Philip  Elderkin., 
being   at  that  time   president  of   a  railroad   company, 
which  was  establishing  an  important  connection  of  travel 
that  was  to  pass  within  a  few  miles  of  the  quiet  town  oj 


THE  END.  427 

Ashfield,  was  a  passenger  on  the  steamer  Caledonia  for 
Europe.  He  sailed,  partly  in  the  interest  of  the  com 
pany,  —  to  place  certain  bonds,  —  and  partly  in  his  own 
interest,  as  an  intelligent  man,  eager  to  add  to  his  knowl 
edge  of  the  world. 

At  Paris,  where  he  passed  some  time,  it  chanced  that 
he  was  one  evening  invited  to  the  house  of  a  resident 
American,  where,  he  was  gayly  assured,  he  would  meet 
with  a  very  attractive  American  heiress,  the  only  daugh 
ter  of  a  merchant  of  large  fortune. 

Philip  Elderkin  —  brave,  straightforward  fellow  that 
he  was  —  had  never  forgotten  his  early  sentiment.  He 
had  cared  for  those  French  graves  in  Ashfield  with  an 
almost  religious  attention.  In  all  the  churchyard  there 
was  not  such  scrupulously  shorn  turf,  or  such  orderly 
array  of  bloom.  He  counted  —  in  a  fever  of  doubt  — 
upon  a  visit  to  Marseilles  before  his  sail  for  home. 

But  at  the  soiree  we  have  mentioned  he  was  amazed 
and  delighted  to  meet,  in  the  person  of  the  heiress, 
Adele  Maverick,  —  not  changed  essentially  since  the 
time  he  had  known  her.  That  life  at  Marseilles  —  even 
in  the  well-appointed  home  of  her  father  —  has  none  of 
that  domesticity  which  she  had  learned  to  love  ;  and  this 
first  winter  in  Paris  for  her  does  not  supply  the  lack. 
That  she  has  a  great  company  of  admirers  it  is  easy  to 
understand  ;  but  yet  she  gives  a  most  cordial  greeting 
to  Phil  Elderkin,  —  a  greeting  that  by  its  manner  makes 
the  pretenders  doubtful.  Philip  finds  it  possible  to 
reconcile  the  demands  of  his  business  with  a  week's  visit 
to  Marseilles.  To  the  general  traveler  it  is  not  a  charm- 


428  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

ing  region.  The  dust  abounds  ;  the  winds  are  terrible  ; 
the  sun  is  scalding.  But  Mr.  Philip  Elderkin  found  it 
delightful.  And,  indeed,  the  country-house  of  Mr.  Mav 
erick  had  attractions  of  its  own  ;  attractions  so  great 
that  his  week  runs  over  into  two,  —  into  three.  There 
are  excursions  to  the  Pont  du  Gard,  to  the  Arene  of 
Aries.  And,  before  he  leaves,  he  has  an  engagement 
there  (which  he  has  enforced  by  very  peremptory  pro 
posals)  for  the  next  spring. 

On  his  return  to  Ashfield,  he  reports  a  very  successful 
trip.  To  his  sister  Rose  (now  Mrs.  Catesby,  with  a 
blooming  little  infant,  called  Grace  Catesby)  he  is  spe 
cially  communicative.  And  she  thinks  it  was  a  glorious 
trip,  and  longs  for  the  time  when  he  will  make  the  next. 
He,  furthermore,  to  the  astonishment  of  Dame  Tourtelot 
(whose  husband  sleeps  now  under  the  sod),  has  com 
menced  the  establishment  of  a  fine  home,  upon  a  charm 
ing  site,  overlooking  all  Ashfield.  The  Squire,  still 
stalwart,  cannot  resist  giving  a  hint  of  what  is  expected 
to  the  old  Doctor,  who  still  wearily  goes  his  rounds,  and 
prays  for  the  welfare  of  his  flock. 

He  is  delighted  at  the  thought  of  meeting  again  with 
Adele,  though  he  thinks  with  a  sigh  of  his  lost  boy. 
Yet  he  says  in  his  old  manner,  "  'T  is  the  hand  of  Prov 
idence  :  she  first  bloomed  into  grace  under  the  roof  of 
our  church  ;  she  comes  back  to  adorn  it  with  her  faith 
and  her  works." 

At  a  date  three  years  later  we  take  one  more  glimpse 
at  that  quiet  village  of  Ashfield,  where  we  began  our 


THE  END.  429 

story.  The  near  railway  has  brought  it  into  more  inti 
mate  connection  with  the  shore  towns  and  the  great 
cities.  But  there  is  no  noisy  clatter  of  the  cars  to  break 
the  quietude.  On  still  days,  indeed,  the  shriek  of  the 
steam-whistle  or  the  roar  of  a  distant  train  is  heard 
bursting  over  the  hills,  and  dying  in  strange  echoes  up 
and  down  the  valley.  The  stage -driver's  horn  is  heard 
no  longer  ;  no  longer  the  coach  whirls  into  the  village 
and  delivers  its  leathern  pouch  of  letters.  The  Tew 
partners  we  once  met  are  now  partners  in  the  grave. 
Deacon  Tourtelot  (as  we  have  already  hinted)  has  gone 
to  his  long  home  ;  and  the  dame  has  planted  over  him 
the  slab  of  ' '  Yarmont "  marble,  which  she  has  bought 
at  a  bargain  from  his  "  nevvy." 

The  Boody  tavern-keeper  has  long  since  disappeared  ; 
no  teams  wheel  up  with  the  old  dash  at  the  doors  of  the 
Eagle  Tavern.  The  creaking  sign-board  even  is  gone 
from  the  overhanging  sycamore. 

Miss  Almira  is  still  among  the  living.  She  sings  treble, 
however,  no  longer  ;  she  wears  spectacles  ;  she  writes  no 
more  over  mystical  asterisks  for  the  "Hartford  Courant." 
Age  has  brought  to  her  at  least  this  much  of  wisdom. 

The  mill  groans,  as  of  old,  in  the  valley.  A  new  race 
of  boys  pelt  the  hanging  nests  of  the  orioles  ;  a  new  race 
of  school-giils  hang  swinging  on  the  village  gates  at  the 
noonings. 

As  for  Miss  Johns,  she  lives  still,  —  scarce  older  to  ap 
pearance  than  twenty  years  before,  —  prim,  wiry,  active, 
—  proof  against  all  ailments,  it  would  seem.  It  is  hard 
to  conceive  of  her  as  yielding  to  the  great  conqueror. 


430  DOCTOR    JOHNS. 

If  the  tongue  and  an  inflexibility  of  temper  were  the 
weapons,  she  would  whip  Death  from  her  chamber  at  the 
last.  It  seems  like  amiability  almost  to  hear  such  a  one 
as  she  talk  of  her  approaching,  inevitable  dissolution,  — 
so  kindly  in  her  to  yield  that  point ! 

And  she  does  ;  she  declares  it  over  and  over  ;  there 
are  far  feebler  ones  who  do  not  declare  it  half  so  often. 
If  she  is  to  be  conquered  and  the  Johns  banner  go  down, 
she  will  accept  the  defeat  so  courageously  and  so  long  in 
advance  that  the  defeat  shall  become  a  victorious  con 
firmation  of  the  Johns  prophecy. 

She  is  still  earnest  in  all  her  duties ;  she  gives  cast 
away  clothing  to  the  poor,  and  good  advice  with  it.  She 
is  rigorous  in  the  observance  of  every  propriety  ;  no 
storm  keeps  her  from  church.  If  the  children  of  a  new 
generation  climb  unduly  upon  the  pew-backs,  or  shake 
their  curly  heads  too  wantonly,  she  lifts  a  prim  fore 
finger  at  them,  which  has  lost  none  of  its  authoritative 
meaning.  She  is  the  impersonation  of  all  good  severities. 
A  strange  character  !  Let  us  hope  that,  as  it  sloughs 
off  its  earthly  cerements,  it  may  in  the  Divine  pres 
ence  scintillate  charities  and  draw  toward  it  the  love  of 
others.  A  good  kind,  bad  gentlewoman,  —  unwearied 
in  performance  of  duties.  We  wonder  as  we  think  of 
her  !  So  steadfast,  we  cannot  sneer  at  her,  —  so  true 
to  her  line  of  faith,  we  cannot  condenfn  her,  —  so  utterly 
forbidding,  we  cannot  love  her  !  May  God  give  rest 
to  her  good  stubborn  soul ! 

Upon  Sundays  of  August  and  September  there  may  be 


THE  EXD.  431 

occasionally  seen  in  the  pew  of  Elderkin  Junior  a  gray- 
haired  old  gentleman,  dressed  with  scrupulous  care,  and 
still  carrying  an  erect  figure,  though  somewhat  gouty  in 
his  step.  This  should  be  Mr.  Maverick,  a  retired  mer 
chant,  who  is  on  a  visit  to  his  daughter.  He  makes  won 
derful  gifts  to  a  certain  little  boy  who  bears  a  Puritan 
name,  and  gives  occasional  ponderous  sums  to  the  parish. 
In  winter,  his  head-quarters  are  at  the  Union  Club. 

And  Doctor  Johns  ?  Yes,  he  is  living  still,  —  making 
his  way  wearily  each  morning  along  the  street  with  his 
cane.  Going  oftenest,  perhaps,  to  the  home  of  Adele, 
who  is  now  a  matron,  —  a  tender,  and  most  womanly 
and  joyful  matron,  —  and  with  her  little  boy  —  Reuben 
Elderkin  by  name  —  he  wanders  often  to  the  graves 
where  sleep  his  best  beloved,  —  Rachel,  so  early  lost,  — 
the  son,  in  respect  to  whom  he  feels  at  last  a  "  reasonable 
assurance  "  that  the  youth  has  entered  upon  a  glorious 
inheritance  in  those  courts  where  one  day  he  will  join 
him,  and  the  sainted  Rachel  too,  and  clasp  again  in  his 
arms  (if  it  be  God's  will)  the  babe  that  was  his  but  for 
an  hour  on  earth. 


THE    END. 


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